


Calamity and Puissance

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Lies & Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Bliss, F/F, Five Year Olds, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Misunderstandings and Ineffective Communication, Pining, Retelling of Events from s1-s3, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 82,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: Edward wanted to be privy to everything that defined Oswald. Even if that meant being surprisingly inept at predicting what would occur from the simple need to have a mentor.





	1. Believer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C & P rehashes the events of S1 to S3, and is a prologue to the second part that will start from S4 and diverge entirely around 4x04.
> 
> _This is incredibly near and dear to my heart, so enjoy._   
> 

* * *

It was easy for Edward Nygma to find elation in his cryptic fascinations. These infatuations would normally take on an obsessive manner to them, out of a need to circumvent the likelihood these _subjects_ would never mutually return his level of intrigue. Most were intellect related, which was evident early on from his success in winning the _Whippleburn Prize for excellence_ , and the articles he had published in various journals. These were things that came easy to Edward, since he was a young child there was nothing more important to him than people. Alive or dead, it didn’t make too much of a difference – other than dead people being more accessible.

He knew when he had gone to Gotham University exactly where he would function most successfully. GCPD, the _crème de la crème_ , would surely appreciate all he had to offer, and his strange need for understanding the terrors of Gotham’s crude killers. He was the only one that had a mind like his, capable of deciphering all the mysteries that came across his desk. He’d spent long nights harbouring his cognizance for Gotham’s elite underworld and spent his days tearing through any mistakes they might have made that would lead to their identities.

Soon, the work that came across his desk grew tedious, petty murders or thefts, things that he could solve in his sleep. He was beginning to feel uncontested _,_ thoughts in his mind repeatedly confirming just how _bored_ he was. He was hardly appreciated by his co-workers, let alone regarded as anything more than the forensic _freak_ scientist that he was. He had overheard just what people truly thought of him on more than one occasion.

Harvey Bullock – easily his least favourite officer – made his disdain publicly known for Edward any chance he could. Edward, out of politeness, would still try to get in his good graces in the only way he knew how. Speaking in riddles, or asking puzzling questions. This in turn clearly infuriated Bullock, Edward not understanding how his form of schmoozing could be interpreted as condescending to people not even close to his level of intelligence.

“Get to the _point_ , Ed.” Bullock would practically snarl, having listened to him talk about piranhas and the way they travel in packs and that was about when Bullock had tuned Ed out.

Edward snapped his mouth shut, looking clearly defeated, he _was_ _just about to get to the point._

“He hasn’t had his morning swig yet, Ed, don’t mind him.” A newer detective – Gordon – or something, spoke in the other detective’s defence, attempting to alleviate the tension.

“Your victim was eaten alive by piranhas, at least forty of them, double what’s necessary to truly kill someone anyway but-“

“We get the picture, thank you, Ed.” Gordon interrupted, eyeing Bullock as he had taken his flask out and took a large gulp when Edward had started talking again.

“Don’t get too nice with that one Jim, he’s a loon,” Bullock muttered as they walked away from Edward, assuming he was out of earshot, or not… Bullock never seemed to care about hurting people’s feelings. The detective wasn’t known for having a filter.

Jim seemed to give Bullock a pat on the back but didn’t say anything in return. Edward wasn’t sure what it meant, not able to read the social context. Jim, perhaps he’d be a good one. Edward had recalled that the new detective had been competent enough to solve one of his riddles, hadn’t even been slightly annoyed when he had asked – that was new for Edward. The new detective was still fresh to the role though, in time he’d likely turn into the rest.

Edward hadn’t realized until that point how much he had wanted a counterpart to play a part in his antics, perhaps finding equal amusement in Edward’s choice of riddles or puzzles, someone who understood why he was compelled to use them in conversations. Edward didn’t understand this new need, simply registering it as a new fascination, an unlocked aspect to the gregarious experience.

As weeks went on, his appreciation for Jim Gordon grew, as it seemed for many others too. Gotham as a city seemed to welcome Gordon and his unorthodox need for morality. GCPD wasn’t known for upholding regulation, it was known for being lackadaisical, being docile to Gotham’s underbelly. Jim wanted more, wanted growth in the city, wanted to wake up one morning with no calls of homicides or threats on some large scale. Edward didn’t understand this. His allure and fascination with Gotham stood on a pedestal above all others. Edward saw Gotham as the pinnacle for intellects to flourish, people of the same psyche who wanted to rule. He saw Jim as the destructor of this goal, lodging his appreciation for Jim’s friendliness, but also resenting how he wanted to uphold Gotham to any other standard than what it was – the birthplace of terror.

* * *

“Glasses, you’ve been staring at that file since I left twenty minutes ago.” Some… cretin police officer stated, _Pele?_ _Diaz_? _Alvarez – yes, right, Alvarez._ “It’s a mob hit, useless to investigate, it’s going to get swept under the rug like they all do.”

Edward looked up at him, irritation evident. “I’m doing my job.”

“Well, move on to another one then.”

“You weren’t the lead detective on this, Gordon was.” Edward countered.

“Yes, and it was reassigned to me by the Captain, and I’m telling you to drop it.”

“How much did they pay you for this one?” Edward let the question slip before he even knew he had. It wasn’t unknown that Alvarez took bribes to keep mob hits off the radar, but Edward had grown tired of letting good cases be taken away. “I m-mean-“ Edward stuttered, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Just never mind, of course, I’ll drop it. I just find the level of brutality fascinating, there’s a certain quality of anger to this.”

Alvarez didn’t even seem to falter at Edward’s question, either because he saw Edward as an empty threat, or didn’t care, Edward wasn’t going to question it.

“The guy is dead, most assassins are angry. Brutality isn’t new to their style of murder.” Alvarez replied, and then snatched the file from Edward’s desk before he could even scramble to retrieve it. He turned to walk away, but halted, rotating on his heel to look at Edward. He pressed a finger to his lips pensively before pointing at Edward and saying, “Ed, would anyone notice if you just up and disappeared from here?”

Edward’s eye twitched, he pushed his glasses upwards again, feeling warm. _Was that a threat?_

“If I was you, I wouldn’t mess with someone on the GCPD’s and mob’s payroll.” Alvarez continued, watching Edward shift uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “Not saying I am, but you know, just in case. I’m just looking out for your best interests.”

Edward watched him walk away, down the flight of stairs, before he turned back to stare down at his now empty desk. That was a good one though. Just like Edward to give it up without a fight though, at least he could continue to say he was consistent in his behaviour.

He pulled upon his desk drawer, fetching out a copy of the file that was just taken away. It was far from allowed, but Edward did enjoy keeping copies of his favourite cases. He opened the file, briefly skimming the statements from the parents, talking about how their two sons were angels, _never done anything bad in their lives,_ let alone anything to warrant how cruelly they were murdered. One of the mothers recounts a call she thought was a prank, hardly believing her son could ever be wrapped up in something like he was. Edward recalls listening to the recording of what she called ‘ _the most regrettable moment for her life_ ’ how the individual on the other end was polite in his demands, which was what primarily led the mother to believe it couldn’t have been real.

Edward listened to the voice on the other end of the call, “ _Madam, I assure you, your son is not trying to trick you. Oh_ , _he_ _will die a horrible death unless he…”_ the mother laughs loudly, leaving the other party momentarily stunned. “ _I’m not joking_.”

Edward laughed, a little too loudly, startling his desk mate out of his slumber. Edward cleared his throat, composing himself as he closed the file quickly and shoved it back into the drawer. There had been another part to the file, which had specifically happened in Gotham. A parking garage across the way from a food stand, where a mobster had been stabbed repeatedly. That was the part that Alvarez wanted to be shut down. Edward smirked knowingly, connecting the stab wounds from the mobster to match the fatal wounds to the son of the woman from the recording. They were from the same knife, _rookie_ _mistake_ \- safe for how there was no DNA evidence left at the crime, let alone any indication who had committed the murders. All Edward had was a voice to go by, not that he would do anything with that information - he would likely be murdered if he did after all.

Edward _liked_ this new mystery.

* * *

“ _Hello_!” A voice called, and then laughter rang through the GCPD, immobilizing everyone within the vicinity. Edward turned towards the precinct entranceway, as everyone did. The individual bowed, smirking as if he'd won the greatest prize of all. A smile rose to Edward’s lips, _that_ _voice_. “I am Oswald Cobblepot.”

Edward looked around at his coworkers, a silence amongst them. Bullock gave Gordon a particularly viscous look. _This_ _was_ _Jim’s_ _saviour_. Edward thought to himself, his smile growing. There was no doubt in his mind this was also the voice that had accompanied the call from that son’s mother. Much more confident sounding now, as if a transformation had taken place. Edward was thoroughly bemused, he now had a label for the collection in his drawer. The _infamous_ Penguin. Edward had to refrain himself from erupting in glee. There was so much to unravel from this new information…

“You son of a bitch!” Bullock shouted, lunging at Gordon who attempted to calm Bullock, “you son of a bitch!”

Edward tightened his grip on his notebook. He watched as Oswald moved down the short flight of stairs, entirely focused on the scene ahead, paying no mind to where Edward stood. Edward’s smile finally lifted, as Montoya and Allen released Jim and Bullock. However, Bullock made another attempt to lunge towards Jim and was yanked off by Allen and hauled off by Captain Essen to her office.

Edward continued to watch the scene unfold, Montoya and Allen, asking Oswald various questions, informing him how worried his mother was, asking about his leg, his whereabouts… everything under the sun, concern for their favourite snitch evident. Despite his curiosity, Edward took his leave from the area, especially once all the officers returned to their seats, including the one Edward was leaning against. The officer cleared his throat as he sat down, Edward looked at him briefly, giving a polite smile as he left.

This was _something_. His mystery was becoming undone. He had a name! He rushed upstairs, looking through his desk to find his label maker and printing out _‘The Penguin_ ’. He took out the folder he had from all the relevant murders, labelling it as such. This was for his eyes only. He debated taking the folder home, knowing how snoopy the people in the office could be. Instead, he found himself staying later into the evening, installing a false bottom to the drawer where he would hide the file away.

After reading his notes over the ninth time that evening, he took his leave, feeling as if he won a prizeless game. He also found himself desiring to find out anything and everything he could of the Penguin, but he supposed that could wait another day.

* * *

Kristen Kringle was nice, at least in some regard to Edward. Her beauty was truly… immense, magnetic, debilitating, and carried an air of normalcy. Everyone talked of how Kristen Kringle was unapproachable, not in the negative connotation of the word, just in a committed sense. There had been few times where she was single, and if she was taken, it was normally with one of the officers. Edward saw nothing bad of this, but he did think it was strange that someone so nice and innocent could be attracted to the baboons in the office.

He had tried many times to show Miss Kringle how much more valuable he could be as a man, and he never quite understood how she couldn’t see that. He understood that he wasn’t of the same stature as one of the officers, but he knew he outsmarted all of them. He knew he could be a much more satiable partner in the long-term. He always found himself putting very little confidence forward when dealing with Miss Kringle, always choosing to leave her confusing notes, unrealistically difficult puzzles, or cryptically worded riddles – at least that’s how she viewed him.

Miss Kringle was a distraction from his other muses, savouring in the delight he felt whenever they crossed paths. He hadn’t known how to truly act around someone he had feelings for, it was incredibly seldom that he ever felt anything towards another human being.

Harvey Bullock made him feel angry.

Kristen Kringle made him feel light as a feather.

Jim Gordon made him feel respected.

Oswald Cobblepot made him feel animated.

As the weeks had moved along, Edward had kept tabs on his newest favourite Gotham killer. He indulged in how the Penguin was changing, gaining confidence as he gained rank. Edward just couldn’t figure out where the Penguin was headed. His tactics were also changing. Oswald Cobblepot no longer seemed to be the one to do the killing, Edward supposed he had started to place that burden on others. Edward wasn’t entirely sure if he should call that a burden or not… he assumed that based on the level of emotion the Penguin put into kills, that the Penguin enjoyed murdering others.

 _Perhaps_ , Edward thought, _Penguin’s_ _injury_ _was_ _becoming_ _more_ _of_ _a_ _hindrance_. Edward had read a very vague history on Oswald Cobblepot, had read of his mother, read of a poor upbringing, read Jim Gordon’s report on what happened that night at the docks, read about Fish Mooney and Carmine Falcone, read everything he could and still felt like he knew absolutely nothing.

He had started to feel like he only had a small part to the puzzle. The fact that he could no longer tie particular hits to the Penguin since he wasn’t the one doing the work – well, it stopped progression on the file Edward kept hidden from view. He had started to make assumptions instead, in between working on other cases and completing autopsies the dimwitted Medical Examiner could not.

“ _Imbecile_.” Edward said under his breath as he stopped in front of the Medical Examiner’s room. He needed to devise a plan to get this moron removed. His face lit up as an idea crept to mind.

* * *

Edward had taken note of when the Penguin was arrested, something to do with a deal gone bad at the docks. He had kept an eye on the cell, watched as Bullock took a moment to laugh at Penguin being locked up, _where_ _he_ _belonged_ , Edward thought to himself. Had it been himself that time? Sometimes the thoughts felt detached from how he truly felt.

The thing Edward hadn’t expected was Sal Maroni paying a visit to the little locked up bird. He had vaguely figured out where the Penguin’s allegiance was, and this was not it. Surely there must have been more to all of this, more to it that Edward didn’t understand, which was infuriating.

Edward needed to distract himself. So, he turned to his infatuation with Miss Kringle, which involved some baking and a round he took from an ammo box left carelessly on top of an officer’s desk.

* * *

“I believe you left this on my desk,” Miss Kringle pointed out a couple of mornings later, after Edward had received another compliment from Harvey Bullock for doing _good_ _work_. It had him feeling elated. She handed him the cupcake with a paper towel over top, look of disgust on her face that didn’t immediately register with Edward.

“It’s a riddle,” Edward replied.

“It’s a cupcake with a live bullet sticking out of it.” Miss Kringle said, annoyance tinting her tone. Edward picked up on it that time, face falling.

“I-It’s a riddle,” Edward repeated, good mood dissipated.

“It’s menacing and weird and inedible.” Miss Kringle said finitely, crumbling the paper towel in her hand and dropping it next to the cupcake. She took her leave, leaving Edward disheartened.

“Thank you for the files, Miss Kringle.” Edward said quickly, attempting to hide his very evident embarrassment. He’d get it right at some point with her, he decided.

As the day waned, he had figured out a plot to get into Miss Kringle’s good graces. He had marched to the Records Annex, pushing the door open quietly and stopped next to her, startling her as he spoke.

“Miss Kringle…” Edward paused, settling his nerves. “The cupcake is sweet, the bullet is deadly, a beautiful woman is a dangerous thing.”

The smile that rose on Miss Kringle’s face made Edward’s heart flutter. Her brows then furrowed and a different facial expression took over that Edward couldn’t read.

“Uh, listen, I uh… I bet it’s so… I don’t even know what to say to that.” Miss Kringle stumbled through her words, collecting files from a drawer as she rambled.

“Nygma, you perv. Back off. Can’t you see the lady doesn’t want you bugging her?” Detective Flass interrupted. Edward hunched his shoulders, lip twitching.

“I- uh, hey there,” Edward recovered, shooting his arms up in defence, smile riddling his face to try and subdue the tension. “Hey now, who’s bugging who. I’m just… I’m just… what’s green then red? Frogs in a blender.” Edward laughed nervously, his whole plan falling apart. This was not how he meant it to go. The question had earned a quick smile from Miss Kringle, which he assumed was a good thing.

“Walk away, Nygma.” Detective Flass continued, Edward opened his mouth, but words didn’t come out. “Walk away.”

“I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you Miss Kringle,” Edward admitted, deflated and defeated by this show of a baboon. “That was not my intention.” The look Miss Kringle sent him was venomous. She didn’t say a word as he left, even as he attempted to point out the noise coming from the side wall. He was taken quickly by this new curiosity, but still overheard Miss Kringle when she spoke:

“Thank you, he is so weird.”

He didn’t understand. One moment she was smiling, the next berating him or making rude comments as such. Why did he put up with this still? Why was he pining after someone that didn’t want a moment of his time? Edward knew he should give it up, but he was sure there was more to this. He needed a sense of completion, to feel as if he had done everything he could to win her over.

 _Why are you like this_? Edward found the thought lingering longer than he wanted. He had always been this obsessive, needing an answer to every question, needing to know every outcome. It was just who he was. He couldn’t alter that aspect of himself. _There is always room for change, Eddie._

Edward removed his glasses briefly to rub at his eyes once he was seated at his desk.

* * *

Edward had proven useful with Jim later on in the case they were working on, having provided Jim with the issued galoshes which would save him from electrocution in the precinct.

It had also been his first time running in to Leslie Thompkins, as she dropped in to visit Jim, doll in hand. Her face lit up as she approached Jim’s desk, which Edward registered as happiness. He smiled to himself as he left to return to his work.

He later read that day of an attack on Sal Maroni and the restaurant the Penguin managed, where everyone had been hit with a surge of electricity. Edward had heard the Penguin had been hit, even needed medical attention.

He had even ended up at the precinct, again with Sal Maroni, Edward had missed them this time, missing also the commotion when the precinct had been hit by the Electrocutioner, stunning the Penguin for the second time, oh, and of course all the people in the building… not that they concerned Edward - he had already collected that Miss Kringle had left, and Gordon was wearing his suggested footwear. There was also the thought at the back of his mind that if he had been there, he could’ve recommended rubber soles to the helpless bird.

* * *

Miss Kringle gasped as Edward crept on her again a couple of days later, when Edward didn’t immediately speak, nor let Miss Kringle pass, she spoke: “Can I help you with something?”

“Did you know, Miss Kringle… that the earliest greeting cards dated back to Germany in the early 1400s.” Edward held up an envelope, Miss Kringle looked at it skeptically.

“I have… a lot of work to do.”

“This is for you.” Edward pushed the envelope towards her, continuing to ignore the room.

“Doesn’t say anything weird, does it?”

Edward shook his head, “no ma'am.” Miss Kringle finally took the envelope, clutching that and her files to her chest as she shuffled by Edward quickly to leave the room.

Edward had meant it as a nice sentiment, including the contents. They were for Miss Kringle’s eyes only. He had written multiple versions the night before, trying to find the best version to impress Miss Kringle with. Surely she’d appreciate his effort.

* * *

“Listen to this, this is classic.” Detective Flass wasn’t attempting to be quiet.

“Stop it,” Miss Kringle reached out to the grab the envelope.

“Relax,” Flass continued as he read from it, unaware as Edward entered the annex. “Dear Miss Kringle, your eyes are as green as a meadow, your smile is as bright as the sun, your skin is as white as a snowflake, it seems like your life is fun,” laughter erupted from the surrounding officers. Edward frowned. “Oh hey, it’s the writer himself.” Miss Kringle snatched the letter from Flass’ hands. “It’s a real piece of work you got there, perv. I wouldn’t quit your day job if I were you.”

“Rodger Dodger,” Edward saluted, feeling alit with frustration and having no other means to retort.

“Rodger Dodger,” Flass repeated slowly, looking back at Edward in amusement.

“Flass, stop it.” Miss Kringle attempted.

“What a creep,” Flass laughed, sipping his coffee.

Edward left quickly, unaware of Miss Kringle’s furrowed brow, watching him as he left. That was not how that was supposed to go.

* * *

Edward slowly dissected the onions from his spaghetti, annoyed already by the way his day was going, but more-so by the ignoramus that couldn’t follow simple instructions with his takeout order.

Miss Kringle entered the room, clearing her throat twice as she did so. “Mr. Nygma.” He looked up briefly towards her, and then back down at the task on hand.

“Miss Kringle,” he replied half-heartedly.

“Am I interrupting-“

“Yes, I’m surgically removing the onions from my takeout, so if you don’t mind.”

“Mr Nygma, I owe you an apology.”

This caused Edward to raise his head, curious.

“I didn’t give Arnold the card, he found it in my desk. He has a strange sense of humour. I thought your card was… very uhm… thoughtful, I guess.” Edward finally turned to look at her, a slight smile coming over him. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Miss Kringle, would you-“

“No, no, no, no, no, please don’t say anything else, just, please.” She hurriedly said, rushing out of the room before Edward could finish his thought.

“There’s hope.” Edward smiled once she had left, picking out another onion from the takeout.

To add to this, Detective Arnold Flass was overtaken that evening by Captain Essen, and more importantly Jim Gordon, who arrested Flass for murder. Edward watched from the stairs, all smiles, not catching Miss Kringle’s look of disappointment.

* * *

Edward’s irritation with the Medical Examiner had grown exponentially, and Captain Essen was adamant about the complaints the M.E. had filed against him. He couldn’t stay away from that part of the office, he wanted to be able to analyze the bodies himself, he could do so much more than that oaf of a doctor could. Yet, still, Captain Essen couldn’t see his value – being annoyed that he even dared approach her with a riddle, as Bullock threatened to throw him from a roof.

Edward was growing tired again. Having Jim around as a friend had improved his mood. Perhaps Jim didn’t see him as a friend, but Edward saw him as such. He was growing tired of the disrespect and ill comments. He was still frustrated with the way Miss Kringle had handled his affections. He was ever hopeful of their future, still seeing something unfinished. He was ignorant of how any of it was supposed to be, not realizing it shouldn’t take this long, but he’d see it through.

He made a misstep again as the case moved along, knowing he shouldn’t have been evaluating the body, but he also knew that the M.E. was again missing pertinent details.

“Oh, oh dear.” Edward stuttered, as Captain Essen and the M.E. interrupted him internally analyzing the dead body.

“Get your hand out of that corpse, now.” Captain Essen rumbled.

Edward quickly did as he was told, “I was just passing by, and I uh… uhm… was just curious.” He laughed nervously, attempting to sway his boss’s wrath. He hunched his shoulders, raising the bloodied hand to slap his forehead as he spoke next. “What was I thinking! I- uh- sorry, won’t happen again. Promise.”

But the Medical Examiner had shown his hand, threatening Captain Essen by going over her head, calling Edward a loon in the process.

“I’m sorry Ed,” Captain Essen started, _was she actually sorry? How could I be so stupid_? “Till further notice you’re suspended.”

“But… I _found_ something.” Edward muttered after they had already left.

Again, feeling devalued and under-appreciated. The half-assed doctor could hardly do what he could, and his boss didn’t see that. Edward needed to be louder, show his hand. He needed people to see that. He felt shooting pain as he gripped the gurney, tempted to continue his work on the body, but knowing how easily a suspension could turn into a termination.

* * *

Edward made his way to the Records Annex, intent on saying goodbye to Miss Kringle. Not a forever goodbye, knowing he’d be back once he had cemented a plot to overthrow the M.E., but he still hadn’t wanted to disappear without giving Miss Kringle an explanation.

 _Would anyone miss you_? Edward dismissed the thought, hearing sniffling as he entered the room, finding Miss Kringle leaning against a shelving unit. He hadn’t picked up on the emotion in the room.

“Miss Kringle, I came to tell you that I’ve-“ Miss Kringle lifted herself from the floor as Edward started, patting down her skirt. “Have you been crying?” It came out sounding condescending, Edward hadn’t meant it to.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Miss Kringle rubbed her nose, moving back to her desk, files in hand.

“But I can see tears,” Edward pointed out, the easiest way to tell how she felt, “on your face. Is it because your friend Detective Flass was arrested?”

“What do you need Mr Nygma?”

“Yes. I’ve been… suspended and won’t be seeing you anymore.” _Do you really think she cares_? His detached thoughts were reading social cues quicker than his brain was able to. “So I wanted to return this pencil.” It was minuscule, hardly usable, but Edward had been carrying it around like it was the most valuable possession he owned. “I took it from your office some time ago, I kept meaning to return it." Edward pursed his lips together, staring down at the pencil. "Used to be longer.”

Miss Kringle took the pencil, cautiously, tilting her head as she stared at it. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Nygma.” It wasn’t said with malice, it was said with an entirely new demeanour Edward hadn’t seen before from Miss Kringle. “But I’m sorry you’ve been suspended, I wish something could be done.”

 _New motivation_ , Edward quickly thought, overcome with a new need to finalize his plan with the M.E. Edward took his leave, looking back at Miss Kringle before he left.

It had been easy to hijack the body parts from the morgue, having the M.E.’s schedule memorized. The only redeeming quality of the doctor is that he took all of his breaks at the exact same time. _At least there was something he did in an exacting fashion, unlike the rest of his work_. Edward thought to himself, bemused as he rolled the barrack box of body parts from the M.E.’s office to the locker room. He easily picked the lock to the doctor’s locker. He used gloved hands to shove the body parts inside, closing the metal door with slight difficulty from a finger poking out from the bottom.

“Oh, bother,” Edward sighed, reaching down to push the finger inside the locker. He smiled once he secured the padlock, knowing he achieved victory. He was imagining the doctor opening his lock, body parts flying out of him, the complete terror on his face. Almost like clockwork, officers would walk in, he'd flounder with some excuse as to why there were body parts clutched in his arms. Edward continued to muse, finding himself laughing lowly.

His plan had ended up working exactly how he intended. Edward questioned the outcome, curious as to who would replace the previous M.E. Captain Essen called, praising him in a minimal manner to coax him into returning from the suspension.

“What happened to the doctor going over your head if I stuck around?” Edward found himself asking on the phone. Why couldn’t he just let it be? Accept the compliments and return to work with no questions asked? His curiosity was killing him, even though he already knew the answer – he needed to know what Captain Essen had assumed from his work.

“The previous M.E. was stealing body parts, Ed, we shouldn’t have let you leave.” She sighed heavily against her phone. “Until we find a replacement, you can be acting medical examiner, I can’t shy away from the fact you are useful in that area. However, there will still be a written warning on your file about the importance of knowing your place at the GCPD. I can’t say for certain if the next M.E. will find your eagerness to the role helpful, or disrespectful – like our former M.E. thought. Do you understand?”

“Of course, ma'am.” Edward saluted to the phone, knowing his boss wouldn’t be able to see that.

A pause, “is there any way you can come in tonight? I know it’s short notice, only for a few hours to link which body part belongs to whom… it’s kind of a mess down here.”

Edward suppressed his laughter, “I can only imagine. Be there soon.” _Click_. He felt electrified. His work was appreciated, he deduced. Captain Essen hadn't expressed it directly, but he was beginning to note the tone change when it came to people she valued. Perhaps he underestimated what he portrayed in the workplace.

* * *

On re-entrance to the precinct, Edward had passed by Jim and Leslie Thompkins, having a rather… intimate moment beside the detective’s desk. He found himself smiling, content that this would potentially be a distraction for Jim. A multi-layered chance of true happiness if he set his focus on Miss Thompkins. Edward brushed past the group that gathered to watch the open display of affection in front of them. _Was it really so unusual to see Jim in a vulnerable state?_ Edward found himself wondering if he could have that level of affection with Miss Kringle.

He quickly opened the door to the Record Annex, pausing next to Miss Kringle. “I’m not leaving… after all!”

“What?” Miss Kringle closed the cabinet drawer, file in hand.

“It turns out the medical examiner is leaving, so Captain Essen decided to reinstate me.”

“Oh,” Miss Kringle nodded, disinterested. “Okay. Good.”

Edward’s smile fell, turning to take his leave.

“Mr Nygma,” Miss Kringle called out before he left. “You owe me a new pencil.”

Edward nodded, smile reignited as he left the annex. _Victory_.

* * *

 _Dr Leslie Thompkins_ , new Medical Examiner. Captain Essen had walked her around the office, introducing her to anyone who was relevant. She paused next to Edward’s desk.

“This is Ed Nygma, our chief forensic scientist.” His boss introduced, the doctor approached him, outstretching her arm towards Edward.

Edward stumbled as he raised from his desk, flattening his overcoat. He stepped towards the new doctor, reaching out his hand to take hers. “You smell nice, Dr. Thompkins, nice to meet you.”

Miss Thompkins tilted her head, a small smile raising the sides of her lips. “You can call me Lee, Ed. I’m sure we’ll be working a lot together, and friends should be on a first name basis. It’s also nice to know my new perfume is having its intended effect.”

Lee looked to Captain Essen, smiling knowingly, she tilted her head again, as if motioning they should move on. She seemed to want to get settled in and work on the case Captain Essen had been raving about.

“Oh, Dr Thom- I mean, Miss Lee-“

“Just Lee, please.”

“I don’t know if you’ve already been briefed about the Crane case but-“

“Yes, the one where the victims’ adrenal glands are being surgically removed, at the peak of their fear, likely to-“

“Drain the most cortisol possible.” Edward finished.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Lee continued, sharing the same delighted expression. "Let's discuss it later, after I've finished my tour."

“You two will get along just fine.” Captain Essen chuckled, brows furrowed at their topic of intrigue.

Edward watched them leave, happy to have a new coworker who seemed to share his same interests. Someone who actually wanted to understand criminals. Edward had asked Jim earlier about where Dr. Thompkins had done her training, where she had been for the last number of years, when he had said Arkham – Edward couldn’t have been more pleased.

Dr. Thompkins understood how people worked on a level Edward hadn’t known was possible yet, even in the manner she dealt with him. It was something he had noticed Jim was capable of doing as well. Lee wasn’t immediately disgusted by Edward’s comment of the way she smelt, like how Jim wasn’t immediately abrasive about Edward’s riddles or puzzling manner of speaking.

They both had an akin code in the way they dealt with potentially emotionally damaged people. Not that Edward thought he was emotionally damaged, _you_ _know_ _there_ _is_   _some truth_ _to_ _that_ , a voice quickly corrected. Edward’s head twitched, skirting the thought away. Jim was patient with most criminals he had met. He had spared the Penguin’s life. He could manipulate conversations based on the personality characteristics he picked up on while speaking to someone. Edward had seen this happen, he had watched as Jim analyzed a criminal’s features, picking up ticks, quirks, mannerisms, _everything_. Edward wanted that level of human understanding.

He figured Dr Thompkins and Jim Gordon would be his ideal candidates to teach him by means of observation.

Edward pressed a file to his chest, moving away from his desk to the peer over the top of the stairs. He had a compelling urge to do so. He quickly felt a rise in his chest as the Penguin entered the precinct, moving briskly towards Jim’s desk. Edward noted the envelope in his left hand. The Penguin tapped the black card impatiently against his right hand, turning on his right heel.

Oswald felt eyes on him, noticing a GCPD employee watching him. The individual had averted his gaze, irritating Oswald more than he already was. Oswald turned on his heel, peering behind as he noticed the GCPD tool had turned around, climbing down the stairs towards him. The individual quickly darted left, down the opposing staircase as Oswald walked down the right-hand staircase, they both looked over at each other as they reached the main floor.

 _Wasn’t Jim supposed to be in the office?_ He hardly had time to waste here looking for Jim when his club was opening in a matter of hours. And this person matching his pace towards the information desk was not helping his patience. He should’ve just had Gabe deliver it, but it was the precedence of it – Jim was a friend after all. Albeit a reluctant friend, but Oswald didn’t care for the specifics.

They both turned at the same point, meeting each other at the centre of the information desk. The GCPD fellow passed behind Oswald, scanned around the office briefly, before turning to stand on the Penguin’s right. Oswald observed as he clutched a file to his stomach, teetering on the toes of his shoes before Oswald turned to address him.

“Can I help you?” Oswald asked, as politely as he could muster despite his brewing anger.

“I don’t think so,” Edward replied, turning to look at him. “Can you?” The Penguin laughed quietly. Edward wondered briefly if the Penguin used his smile as a form of defence mechanism, the way Edward did. Or, perhaps, the Penguin used it to lay the foundation for his charismatic charm. All Edward could then think of were the files in his desk, all the stories that lined up with the individual standing in front of him. The mesmerizing trance he always fell into when he looked at the crime scene photos, or remembered being there on the scene to analyze the crimes in person. He was nearly falling into a trance now-

“What do you want?” The Penguin asked, more assertively, hoping the fellow would leave.

“What I want, the poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it, you’ll die.” Edward blurted out quickly, small smile still on his face. He wanted the Penguin to answer, for some reason, was desperate to hear it.

“Is this…” The Penguin shook his head slightly, confused, trying to structure himself. “Are you asking me a riddle?”

“Do you like riddles?”

“No,” Oswald stated flatly.

“So, do you give up?” Surely the Penguin knew the answer, Edward had calculated Oswald Cobblepot’s intelligence based on everything he had read about him. He just wanted the Penguin to play along. He didn’t know the context of the Penguin’s impatience towards Edward, not realizing that he was a stranger speaking to a killer. The Penguin didn’t know that Edward had an entire drawer dedicated to all his conquests, or that this meaningless contact would only heighten Edward’s intrigue. He knew all about Oswald Cobblepot. However, the Penguin did not know Edward Nygma.

The Penguin chuckled again. Of course, he knew the answer. “Friend, lookit…” the Penguin started.

“Nothing!” Edward interrupted. He couldn’t wait any longer. He also didn’t want the Penguin to answer incorrectly, that would destroy all his fun. He found himself reading into the Penguin calling him a friend, before he continued. “The answer is nothing. The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it…”

Oswald paused, _seriously_. This was the last thing he needed. He started thinking about all the things he needed to get done before the end of the day, which only made this correspondence more infuriating. He stuck his hand up, attempting to silence his newest nuisance. “Who are you?”

“Edward.” He paused, “Nygma.” Edward drawled out, before murmuring, “I know who you are.”

Oswald’s eye twitched, _I would certainly hope you knew who I was. Wouldn’t be doing Gotham much of a service if I was still a nobody_. Oswald looked down at the small space between himself and the individual who had introduced himself as Edward, for the life of him, already forgetting his last name. He was hoping once he left the precinct, he’d forget his entire name. This all being such a waste of time. “Then you know that you’re standing too close.”

Edward looked down too, before taking a step back. Not that he really wanted to do so. His next question came out far more patronizing than he intended. He really needed to learn how to control his tone. “Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet? Isn’t that _neat_?”

Edward caught the immediate disdain adorning the Penguin’s features. _Oh no, oh no, no no no_. The Penguin stepped into the space Edward had just moved from. Edward took note of this, _didn’t he just point out that I was standing too close?_

“Nice to meet you, sir.” The Penguin snapped. _SERIOUSLY_? He attempted to keep himself composed, knowing what normally came of people who made comments of his nickname. “Keep moving.” Edward did as he was told, the Penguin watching him as he left.

After returning to the upper level of the precinct, Edward occasionally peered over the balcony railing, noting that the Penguin was still waiting for Jim to return. He noted when they finally interacted, seeing that the Penguin had a much different smile when it came to Jim Gordon. _Genuine_ , much different than the intimidating one he had earlier. He also noticed that the Penguin didn’t make a point of Jim invading his personal space. Edward made a mental note of all of it, hoping one day he could be on the receiving end of such a smile and level of comfort.

 _Wait, why_? Edward moved back to his desk, the question lingering for quite some time. He opened the Crane file on his desk, that was more important for now.

* * *

Some matter of weeks went by, Edward working side by side with Lee, enjoying the camaraderie with a medical examiner who wasn’t threatened by Edward’s presence in the lab. She welcomed his input, but she had a whole breadth of knowledge that sometimes intimidated Edward. He wanted desperately to learn from her but hadn’t figured out how to ask. He did so instead by lingering in the lab, watching her work, picking up quicker tactics to dated techniques that Edward had learned so many years prior. He was appreciative that when Dr. Thompkins found him in her lab, he wasn’t thrown out. She would ask him what he found and listened to his ideas. She would counter with her own, and these were conversations Edward found himself looking forward to when he went to work.

Edward had kept his distance from Miss Kringle, hoping to offer her a reprieve from his antics. When Flass had been arrested, she seemed sad, and Edward wasn’t sure how to handle that. He staved from her unless they ran into each other at work, he would attempt niceties, and then kept moving along.

Until Arnold Flass had been released. Edward had thought this news would pick at Miss Kringle’s fragility, finding her in one of the laboratory rooms at the precinct. He had crept up on her, as per usual.

Miss Kringle gasped, “oh my.”

“Fun fact,” Edward chuckled. “The human specifies attracts members of the opposite sex via pheromones secreted through saliva, sweat, and urine.”

“Gross,” Miss Kringle shook her head frantically.

“But… one can’t always trust such an animalistic method to find a suitable partner.”

Miss Kringle was beginning to learn how Edward would try to express his feelings, this being one of those ways. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Arnold Flass was released.” Edward paused, methodically choosing his next words. “I know that you two were dating and if the attraction wasn’t intellectual…” Edward refrained from snarling. “How could it be with that guerilla?” Pause. “Then it must be physical. He’s just… he’s such a bad, bad, bad…”

Miss Kringle reached out to grab Edward’s arm, silencing him. “I appreciate your concern. But it won’t be necessary. I’ve realized there are far better men in the world than Arnold Flass.”

She released Edward’s arm, taking her leave from the room. Edward clutched where she had held it, grinning to himself. It was so obvious now! Miss Kringle saw his worth, as were others – like Captain Essen, like Jim, like Lee, even Bullock! Surely, this would be his chance to ask Miss Kringle on a proper date. Show her how he could treat her differently than anyone else had.

Except fate had other plans.

Edward approached Miss Kringle at the end of their workday, flowers in hand. He hid them behind his back as he interrupted the conversation she was having with another officer.

“Miss Kringle,” he cleared his throat when she didn’t answer right away.

“Oh, Mr Nygma.” She turned, startled.

“Miss Kringle, I was wondering if you had dinner plans this evening.”

“Oh, um… actually, I…” She could see the crest of the flowers behind his shoulders. “I do. With Tom. Ha-have you met Tom?”

The officer rose from his desk, smug smile as he shook Edward’s hand. “You’re the guy that likes riddles! Hey, what has hands but can’t clap?”

“A clock,” Edward replied blandly as if to try to say there couldn’t have been an easier riddle.

“Correct,” Tom chuckled. “He’s good. You’re good!”

Edward was flabbergasted. “Am I correct to assume that this is your… uh, your new boyfriend?”

“Yeah… Yes, I guess so.” She replied, nervously adjusting her glasses.

“You betcha.” Tom took this moment to possessively slap Miss Kringle’s backside.

“Congratulations, sir.” Edward awkwardly forced out.

“Thank you,” Tom replied, evidently confused. “Well, we should probably get going. It’s nice to meet you. Riddle man, next time… I’m gonna stump you.”

“Yes. Next time.” Edward seethed. He watched them leave, overwhelmed with conniption towards this new individual. Another guerilla, of course. Was this truly what Miss Kringle had meant when she had said there were far better men? From his authoritative stance to his manhandling of Miss Kringle in a public setting, to the sheer feebleminded attempt at a riddle – this was Miss Kringle’s type. Edward couldn't _stand_ it anymore. How much more of this was he prepared to endure?

Edward didn’t fit into Miss Kringle's type. He knew who he was based on other people’s suggestions – a loon, weird, socially inept, perv, but hey, at least he was good at his job. The only positive item on that list.

* * *

Edward wouldn’t be able to ignore the magnetism he felt towards Miss Kringle, even though she was smitten with Officer Dougherty. After an effective evening with a series of watermelons, Edward stored one away to give to Miss Kringle as a gift. He saw it as a truce, unbeknownst to her that Edward had even been angry with her.

He opened the door to the Records Annex, interrupting Miss Kringle’s and the officer’s embrace. Edward turned away.

“So you forgive me.” Officer Dougherty asked Miss Kringle, who was still trapped against him.

“Mhm.” She nodded.

“I’ll see you tonight?” It hardly sounded like a question.

“Mhm.”

“How’s it hanging, Riddle man.” Officer Dougherty took his leave, stopping to steal a piece of watermelon from Edward’s hands.

“It’s hanging… uh, fine.” Edward replied.

“Mr Nygma, did you need something?” She sounded so… _sad_.

“Oh, uh, yes. Detective Gordon wanted me to go through the forensic evidence of these old murders.” He handed her a piece of paper with the dates. He looked down at her arms. “Are those bruises?”

“Uh-“

“Did Officer Dougherty do that?” Edward was lining the pieces up to the conversation he overheard.

“Uh, he-he was upset, and he didn’t mean to, I said some things I shouldn’t have-“

“Miss Kringle, this is not right, he can’t just-“

“Mr Nygma, it is none of your concern. N-now I need to get started on these… files, so if you-“

Edward left with the watermelon in hand, his animosity with Officer Dougherty reaching a neoteric level. Edward chose to act without a plan, finding Officer Dougherty later on in the day to leave him with a threat, one that he knew would likely be received emptily, but he had to try. Edward cleared his throat as he approached the officer.

“Riddle man!” Officer Dougherty called out.

“Officer Dougherty, a word.” The two officers next to Dougherty scoffed passed Edward, leaving Dougherty looming over him from the top of the stairs. “I can start a war, or end one, I can give you the strength of heroes, or leave you powerless-“ Dougherty chuckled. “I might be snared with a glance, but no force can compel me to say, what am I?”

“You got me.” Dougherty shrugged.

“Love. Miss Kringle has given hers to you, and in return, you hurt her. I saw the bruises.”

“And?” Not even a care in the world.

“And you cannot do that, the next time you do that-“ Edward raised his voice.

“Whoaaaaa… slow down, you’ll give yourself a girly fit. Have you ever been with a woman?” Dougherty interrupted, this line of questioning was outside the scope of the point. Was Dougherty really not listening to a word Edward was saying? “Tch, didn’t think so. They need a firm hand. That goes double for Kringle, girl’s got a tongue.”

“I won’t let you hurt her.”

More laughter from Dougherty. _I am so tired of being belittled_.

“Oh yeah.” Dougherty took one of the steps towards Edward. “What are you going to do?” Edward opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Dougherty winked pointedly at him. “That’s what I thought.” He shoved passed Edward. “Later, Riddle man!” He practically singsonged, agitating a silent Edward.

Edward couldn’t let this stand. Why was it so hard for people to see him for what he could do? He knew he wasn’t as Herculean as Dougherty, but that didn’t negate his capabilities.

 _What are your capabilities, Eddie_?

No, no, no, no no no. He knew what he needed to do. Needed to assert himself as someone not to be trifled with. Needed Dougherty to know where he stood on their hierarchy. Tom Dougherty saw him as powerless, nothing more than the forensic scientist they all found so humorous.

 _You don’t even know what you can do. What makes you think this will end well_?

Edward ignored the thought, removing the switchblade from his drawer. He had pickpocketed it from one of the officers that had passed him while talking to Dougherty. He stared down at the open drawer, reaching down to apply pressure to pop the false board upwards, taking out the file he had neglected over the last couple of weeks. He scanned the crime scene images he regularly flaunted over.

 _You think you’re going to win with a knife? He’s GCPD_.

Win what?

 _You want to kill him_.

No, no, nonononono. Edward needed a show of force, that’s all. He needed to show Dougherty he was not joking around. This wasn’t a matter to be swept under the rug. There was no level of abuse that was ever okay. He learnt this a long time ago.

 _He already showed you your hand_.

No, he didn’t. He could be more than how he was in the precinct. He felt that. He knew that.

_I know what you can do. You can’t do this unless you surrender to-_

Enough of that. Edward removed his glasses, pressing his palms against his eyes.

 _Do you think you can be like him? He’s small and inept like you, but at least he lets fury drive him. What will you let take the wheel? Love? Dougherty will beat you within an inch of your life, Eddie_.

“Stop,” Edward muttered out, ignoring the look he received from his desk mate. He hurriedly closed the file, shoving it back into its hidden receptacle.

He wasn’t sure of his endgame, but he was sure that he wanted to protect Miss Kringle at whatever cost. He grabbed his car keys, making his way to the street she lived on, and waited.

The train was loud over his car. He watched Miss Kringle from the street, bundled up and safe as she entered her home. He fondled the knife in his pocket. After some time, he saw a drunk Dougherty making his way towards Miss Kringle’s home.

“Stop right there buster!” Edward called out, opening his car door, practically leaping into action.

“Riddle man? What the hell are you doing creeping around here?”

“You need to leave Miss Kringle alone.”

Dougherty moved slowly across the street. He reeked of cheap beer. “What?”

“I’m not going to let you hurt her. Ever again.” Edward was losing his confidence. “I think you need to leave Gotham, tonight.”

Dougherty laughed, _that damn laugh_. “I get it now. You got a thing for my girl. That’s too funny.” He placed an arm on Edward’s shoulder, towering over him. “Don’t take this personally.” Dougherty flung his fist into Edward’s stomach, causing him to hunch over, falling to his knees. Dougherty laughed again. _That damn laugh. When are you going to take care of it_? “You want some more?” Dougherty lifted him, “upsy-daisies-“ He hadn’t noticed that Edward pulled out the knife, stabbing Dougherty in the stomach on his way up.

“Oh dear,” Edward muttered, looking down at the wound, Dougherty’s hand still on his shoulder. The man fell into him, Edward reflexed and stabbed him again, again, again, until he counted eleven.

“Riddle man,” Dougherty mustered out, before falling back into the street.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh no.” Edward still had the knife in his hand, blood up to his cuffs. He moved around Dougherty’s body, a light chuckle amidst straggled breaths escaping him. He stared at the weapon. “Oh dear,” finally erupting into laughter. “Oh dear.” He looked around the street, no one had come out, no one had seen. He was in the clear, but he struggled to figure out the next step-

 _You need to move_.

Edward nodded, cautiously walked back towards Officer Dougherty’s body. How was he even going to lift the two hundred pound guerilla?

He discovered adrenaline was a powerful drug, dragging the body with some ease next to his car and then lifted him with minimal difficulty into his trunk, then closed it. He needed to think.

There was blood on the streets – but that wasn’t unusual for Gotham. It was raining, perhaps no one would notice before it was washed away. He didn’t have anything to clean up. His trunk was going to be filthy. He hadn’t put anything down to protect it from the blood. He’d need to set the car ablaze, it was his only choice. He couldn’t risk it being discovered. Could he run it off a bridge?

Why didn’t he think of any of this beforehand?

He was no criminal mastermind, mastermind yes, but this wasn’t his area of expertise. What was he even going to do with the body? How was he going to cover up any of this?

 _You’re going about this all wrong Eddie, of course, this is your area of expertise_.

 _You work for the GCPD. You are the clean-up crew_! There was laughter in the back of Edward’s mind, as he struggled to put the puzzle pieces together. He was still reeling from killing a man in cold blood. He was still overdosing in adrenaline, his heart jack-hammering in his chest. He couldn’t collect his thoughts, let alone when they were taking over. After several minutes, once he was seated in his reclined driver’s seat, he calmed.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, finally deciding what he needed to do.

All the instruments he needed were at the GCPD. _How lucky_. He made the trip over, still slightly giddy from the evening’s turn. He exchanged pleasantries with Lee, who was leaving as he entered. She gave him a confused look, as it was so late.

“I forgot something,” Edward offered, tapping his forehead, feigning stupidity.

“Seems unlike you, Ed.” Lee replied, before (thankfully) being swept away by Jim.

He retrieved several surgical instruments, the sharpest, largest saws he could find. He also found appropriately sized trunks from evidence, both being unneeded for any investigation. They had been emptied of their contents years ago. Edward travelled back to his car, without raising any suspicion. They all thought he was strange anyway. Edward realized there appeared to be some benefit in that. He moved his car to behind the GCPD, the parking lot nearly empty. Most of the overnight cops used the front parking lot since there were so few people in the building.

Edward propped open his trunk, looming briefly over Dougherty. “Why couldn’t you just listen?”

He knew he wasn’t going to get a response, especially after meticulously removing the guerilla’s arm from his body, then his head, then his torso, and so on. He separated the body parts into the two trunks, latching them shut. The adrenaline had worn off by now. He needed sleep. He packed the trunks into his back seat, waiting till morning to move them back into the precinct. Edward didn’t know how he could, but he slept soundly in his front seat, despite the dead body behind him.

Edward wheeled the trunks via the back entrance into the GCPD, the wheels struggling as they moved. He made his way into one of the forensic examination rooms, opening the trunk on the surgical table.

“Okie dokie,” Edward stared down at the parts. “No body, no crime, no body, no crime.”

Edward went to lock the door, then grabbed the industrial strength rubber gloves from a box, snapping them at his mid arm. He grabbed a gas mask from the safety drawer, donning it over his face. He placed all the body parts in a vat, moving to grab the large container of sulphuric acid. He might need more than one…

There was a knock at the door as he was about to begin, “ Mr Nygma?”

“Miss Kringle?” Edward started, realizing she wouldn’t have been able to hear him, removed his gas mask. “Miss Kringle? I’m-“ He looked down at the body parts. “One sec.” In a very disheveled state, Edward opened the door. _Disheveled states can be explained away by the nature of your job, Eddie_.

“I need the Hendrix case files,” Miss Kringle stated, quizzically glancing at Edward.

“Uhm, yes, Hendrix, wait right there.”

Miss Kringle didn’t seem to heed his command, moving into the room, looking around till she caught sight of the vat and gasped loudly. “Oh my goodness,” she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Edward moved between her and the tub. “What happened to him?” Miss Kringle asked.

“Uh, axe- accidental death,” Edward sliced his arm downwards in explanation, “at a sheet metal factory. Industrial saw.”

“Poor man. I don’t- I don’t know how you do this job. Death, all around you.”

Edward chuckled. “Yes, one must have a sense of humour.”

“The- the file?”

Edward handed it over. “Yes.” As she turned away, Edward’s eyes rolled, thankful to be over this distraction. He needed to work quickly.

“Oh, Mr Nygma, you haven’t seen Tom- I mean Officer Dougherty? We were… supposed to have dinner last night, and he didn’t show. No surprise, uhm, but I haven’t seen him today.”

Edward uncrossed his arms, flailing them upwards and then crossed again. “Me neither.”

“Oh.”

“Excuse me, I really need to get back to work.”

“Oh, uh- oh.”

“Now.”

“Okay,” Miss Kringle made her way to the door as Edward rushed her out.

“Oh dear…” Edward placed the gas mask back on, travelling to the vat. He dumped several bottles fully into the tub, the disintegration of the parts was not immediate. He knew it would take time, and this was the only thing on his plate.

It took several hours for the skin to dissolve completely. Even then, Edward knew his job wasn’t complete. He picked up the skull from the remains, moving to the surgical table to hold it underneath the light.

“Alas Officer Dougherty, she’s going to wonder where you went. Perhaps a letter, you could say goodbye, give her some advice, something that might lead her to make better choices in the future." Edward punctured holes into the weakened eye sockets of the skull, then placed the skull into a burlap sack, not even hesitating as he took a hammer to it. Repeatedly.

It was done. _No body, no crime_ , he repeated.

Edward made his way to Records Annex later on, after having left a letter for Miss Kringle to find.

“Miss Kringle? Are you okay?”

She sighed, tilting back in her chair. “I got a letter from Officer Dougherty, he left town. Don’t wait around for me, go out and have some fun, and maybe when I get back- blah blah blah, couldn’t even tell me to my face. I mean, why do I keep picking creeps?”

“Sometimes with men you need to read between the lines.”

“Sometimes with men you need a drink. Good day, Mr Nygma.”

Edward waited until Miss Kringle left, walking over to her desk, pressing the letter to the edge where the beginning of each line read N Y G M A, chuckling at his wit. It may not have been perfectly executed, but after all was said and done, he was successful.

 _No body, no crime_. Edward repeated to himself again, collecting his belongings from his desk and leaving the precinct. He did still have one matter to tend to, and that was dozing his car in gasoline and setting it ablaze. He would just obtain another.

He still hadn’t decided what he loved most about all of this, was it the actual killing, or almost being caught with the dead body?

* * *

Miss Kringle found Edward lost in his thoughts, “ Mr Nygma.”

“Miss Kringle.” Edward pretended to be looking through the files in front of him.

“I just noticed something really weird.”

“Oh?”

“This note Officer Dougherty left for me,” she held it in front of Edward’s face. He knew where this was going, the next part barely registering. She sounded so faint. Edward felt light. “The first letter of every line spells out your name.”

Edward came to, he couldn’t let his perfect ending come undone because of his own _rookie mistake_ , reminding him of the rookie mistake he found of the Penguin's, yet it still never would've resulted in his identity being revealed. _Stupid, stupid..._

“See-“ Miss Kringle traced along the note, “N, Y… G, M, A.”

“Yes, how, that- how, how odd. What an amazing coincidence.”

“Coincidence?”

“What else could it be?”

“So you know nothing about this?”

“I- me- no, no.” Edward shook his head. She doesn’t believe you. “Nooo.”

“Huh.” Miss Kringle finished, leaving the room.

Edward erupted into laughter, voices all around him, immediately shushing him. _You’re the guy that likes the riddles_.

 _Why are you laughing, you fool? It’s not funny. What a creep. She’ll keep digging_. Edward slams the cabinet shut, immediately reopening it, fumbling through files. Thoughts coming alive as he spoke outwardly. _What a creep_. “She’ll keep digging. Why did you have to leave a clue, why?”

 _Relax. What can she find? What can she prove? Nothing, there’s no body. Stop worrying_.

“But she looks so sad and angry. I hate it when she looks at me that way."

 _Menacing and weird_.

 _Please, like it matters, like you stand a chance with her. She knows how you feel about her and she treats you like dirt_.

Faded. _Treats you like dirt_.  
  
“I don’t care, I still love her.”

 _Oh, listen to yourself. Be a man!_ Laughter, it’s not his, but of course it is. There’s no one else _. You’ll do better with that one if she’s a little scared of you_.

“Stop talking like that.”

_No riddles._

_Formal complaints about you_.

 _Just keeping it real_.

 _What’s black and white and red all over_? "STOP IT."

 _I wouldn’t quit your day job if I were you_.

Endless laughter.

 _He is… so weird. So… so_ …

Everything is distorted, Edward slams the cabinet shut for the fourth time, in complete disarray. He reached up to push his glasses against his nose but found they were missing. He continued to hear whispers in his ear, not as prominent now. Why did he have to leave a clue? Would Miss Kringle press on the subject? Could she tell he had been lying?

He felt an ache in his chest, _was all of this a mistake_?

No, no, no. He had finally had a taste of true power, held a life in his hands, being the one to decide their fate. He was the one to be feared, Dougherty was able to see that first hand. Edward hadn’t been satiated, not even a little. He needed to know how it felt again, needed to understand the depth he could make someone beg, needed to see how much he could make someone suffer.

 _Are you sure that’s you that yearns for that_?

“Why wouldn’t it be?’

 _You need to let me loose_.

Edward was already free, there were no other internal entities that could show him that. He cleared his thoughts, reimagining the way Dougherty looked so betrayed as he stabbed him. He relished in the remembrance, his first kill. He thumbed over Dougherty’s badge in his pocket.

Laughter erupting from him once more, this time truly his own.


	2. New Rules

Commissioner Loeb was unruly – it didn’t take anyone long to figure that out. He was a pawn in the GCPD, one that the mobsters knew how to exploit. Loeb understood that Gotham was on the precipice of chaos, but he knew Jim Gordon still stood at the juncture of his morality and forced realism.

Edward had waited with anticipation over the next month, to see a change in Jim, to see if Jim finally comprehended the greatness that Gotham could be – yet nothing. Barbara Kean was sentenced to Arkham for killing her parents. Salvatore Maroni and Fish Mooney were both murdered. Carmine Falcone had retired his Don status, and Penguin rose to King of Gotham’s underworld with ease. It excited Edward to little end – he could foresee the challenges Penguin faced, but Edward knew the turmoil would only fuel Penguin’s strive for greatness.

Jim, being Loeb’s burden, was busted down to a traffic cop. This didn’t please Edward in the slightest, it meant he’d no longer work next to Jim, he’d be stuck with the next Detective Oaf who thought it was okay to underestimate Edward. He had also thought he would be ecstatic that Bullock was practically forced to quit, but it all left a certain quality of emptiness to the precinct. Edward had grown accustomed to Bullock’s jabs, and he was starting to enjoy that occasional praise from the Irish baboon. Now, things were different.

Many things were changing - after all, Edward Nygma did kill a man.

 _Can’t you see? We are much better off this way_.

“With a dead man on our conscience?” Edward muttered to the mirror in front of him, not daring to look up to it.

Then there’s the laughter, echoing around the men’s change room, the laughter only Edward could hear.

 _He deserved it_.

“He might’ve been better off on trial-“

 _Don’t even try. He would've never been arrested. He was a cop for God's sake, protected like no other. I’m in your head Eddie, I know what you know before you know it yourself_.

“That hardly seems logical-“

 _I think it’s time we take what’s ours, don’t you? After all, you’ve been stalking her for quite some time, despite her discomfort in your sheer… awkwardness._ More laughter _. Maybe we should put on a show of how much you’ve changed_ -

“I haven’t changed.”

 _YOU KILLED A MAN_. It sounded like the reflection had slapped his hand against the tile wall as he screeched.

“Because he would’ve hurt Miss Kringle again and again-“

 _You know, Eddie, it’s funny… stalking is as much a crime as domestic abuse, I guess it just depends on which end you hold under the light. How many times did Miss Kringle say no to you? How many times did she reject your advances? How many times did she insult you? Didn’t Dougherty say she needed a firm hand, especially with a tongue like hers? What happens when she can’t hold her tongue around you anymore? Wouldn’t that just… infuriate you_?

“I would never hurt Miss Kringle.”

 _Oh yes, right, because you seem to think you’re in love with her. You do know she absolutely loathes giving you any moment of her day_ -

“That’s not true.”

 _Eddie, how could she fall in love with a freak show like you_?

“I don’t know what-“

 _In the pit of your heart- oh why don’t you look up at me?_ Edward immediately regretted looking into the mirror, seeing his… much more confident self… lacking glasses – how could this really be his reflection? What materialized in the reflection’s hand, outstretched towards him, was a human heart, dripping with blood, pulsating in the hallucination’s hand. Edward looked down at the sink, feeling nauseous. Edward placed his glasses on the side of the sink, attempting to achieve some sort of similarity with his reflection. He knew he shouldn’t have looked _. In this pit of your heart, you feel as if you love Miss Kringle. You do know the textbook difference between love and infatuation, don’t you_?

“Infatuation can be a foolish or all-absorbing passion or an instance of this, normally it’s not meant to last, once it has served its purpose, or developed into something more, a person’s interest normally withers,” Edward rambled. “Love is all-encompassing, tender, passionate affection for another person. It’s a feeling of warm personal attachment, deep affection, it can be sexual passion or desire-“

 _Blah, blah, blah, yes Eddie, I know your eidetic memory helps you attempt to grasp what little you understand of the human psyche. Do you know what any of that actually means_?

Edward was quiet. All he had were definitions. All he had were stories he had read of tempestuous love affairs, unrequited torment, or Shakespearean tragedies, hardly warranting any sort of real perspective into what love meant.

 _Correct. Thank you for coming to that revelation all on your own. Now, now, let’s not look too crazy but your dear friend Jim just walked into the washroom, and you do look out of sorts_.

“Ed,” he barely heard Jim next to him, turning off the tap to the sink, clearly already washed his hands. “You okay?”

Edward snapped his head to look over at Jim, smiling slightly to pretend he had not just been talking to himself. “Never better.”

A voice came over the speakers, summoning Jim to the Captain’s office.

“I’m up, cya.” Jim said solemnly, giving Edward one last concerned glance. Edward didn’t look over till after Jim had turned around, eyeing where he had stood with a faint smile. People didn’t normally ask Edward how he was feeling. He watched the officer leave the men’s room, with a growth of appreciation for the person Jim was.

 _He’s gone, relax._ His reflection started, startling Edward to turn around and face the mirror. He was beginning to resent mirrors _. Holy moly, look at you. Everyone’s going to think you’re going nuts_.

“I get nervous when you talk to me with other people around like that.” Edward shook his hands in front of the mirror. The reflection opened his eyes widely, brows raised. “Stop doing that!”

 _Doing what_?

“That! Copying me!”

 _Dude, it’s a mirror, that’s how they work_.

Edward looked downwards, turning the tap on, hoping he could drown out the sound of his reflection. It hadn’t been a well-thought-out method, but it was an attempt nonetheless.

 _You know what I think we need_? Edward looked up. _I think that we need a little more fun, and some romance_. The reflection pushed a stray strand of hair flush against his hairline. Edward turned the tap off after washing his hands for what seemed like the tenth time in twenty minutes.

“Stop. I know where this is going.” Edward frantically pulled the paper towel out of its stand. “I told you… leave Miss Kringle alone.”

 _Imagine her in our arms, those big eyes looking up at us, and soft, trembling flesh_ -

“Be quiet!” Edward interrupted, finally summoning up the courage. He grabbed his glasses from the sink, in a desperate rush to leave the restroom. He heard the laughter behind him but tried to tune it out.

* * *

Edward was somewhat glad when he had heard Jim had been fired – not because he wanted Jim out of the GCPD, no no no. Simply because he knew Jim could never do menial work like a traffic cop, he wasn’t built for that. Sure, it was something all cops did when they started out – but he was sure everyone knew Jim was destined to be more than that. Edward certainly thought Jim would feel powerless as that type of officer again, concluding he was content with how it turned out.

He also knew Jim wouldn’t be gone for long, how could he? GCPD was where he thrived. Gotham was his home, and he was its liberator.

So, Edward wasn’t surprised as he stared down at the body of Ogden Barker, notorious nightclub owner and flesh-peddler as some had referred to him… he removed the 44 caliber rounds from Barker’s chest, dropping them into the petrie desk next to the body. The officers had allegedly misplaced the weapon used from evidence, although from what Edward understood it had been wiped of prints and belonged to the nightclub owner himself. It wasn’t long before Alvarez entered the lab, telling Edward to finish up and have the body sent to the morgue as quickly as possible.

“We’re not concerned about this one?” Edward asked cautiously. Alvarez shot him a look, it had been awhile since Edward had questioned Alvarez’s demands.

“Ogden Barker has been on our radar for years, he’s been peddling women through multiple prostitution rings, selling them to the highest bidder, are you really concerned about finding his killer? Any cop here would’ve loved to be the one to put a slug in him.”

“Yet none of you were responsible.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Alvarez paused, scanning the dead body briefly. “From what we know, he owed Falcone one huge debt, which he didn’t think he owed to Gotham’s new kingpin. You’re a smart guy, connect the dots.” Edward’s eyes widened just a bit at the clue. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes, thank you.” Edward nodded appreciatively.

“Good, finish up.” Alvarez left Edward to his thoughts, thankful for some closure.

However, as Edward rolled the gurney to the elevator to bring the body down to the basement, he wondered why the nightclub had been left in such disarray, why wouldn’t Penguin have just murdered Barker in his office and be done with it? How could there have been a chase all the way to the parking garage next door? It was like there had been hesitation in meeting Barker…

Perhaps Alvarez hadn’t brought Edward much closure at all.

Edward remembered to take a photocopy of the case, adding it to his collection.

In very short spans after Barker was killed, Loeb announced his retirement from the GCPD, fuelling Edward’s notion that Barker’s murder wasn’t a means to an end for Penguin to retrieve a debt. This was further solidified by eavesdropping on a conversation between Hightower and Bullock – who always seemed to need to be in the know, even without a badge. Hightower said that his informant (very likely a Tommy Bones from what Edward gathered) had said Jim Gordon met with Penguin at his new headquarters, discussing something only Selina Kyle had been privy to hear.

 _Selina Kyle_ – Edward wondered. She was in Penguin’s good graces, but wasn’t she just a child? It seemed she was at least resourceful. Edward tried to recall her alias – was it Kit? Mouse? Cat, yes Cat, how could he forget. She was associated with Bruce Wayne, the child who lost his parents, the child who also seemed very fond of Jim Gordon. Truly couldn’t get very far in Gotham without being connected to someone, Edward supposed.

Now, Jim Gordon was reinstated as detective, and Captain Essen was Commissioner Essen, glorious days! This still didn’t entice Harvey Bullock to rejoin, but Edward didn’t mind.

It didn’t take very long for Essen to be thrown under the bus, riding on the coattails of a very quick victory. The night Loeb stepped down was the night Gotham became anew with chaos. Jerome Valeska, Barbara Kean, Arnold Dobkins, Aaron Helzinger, and Robert Greenwood had been broken out of Arkham. Within a day the whole city was rampant with panic. Bodies were being thrown off roofs, school buses hijacked.. a whole extravaganza.

* * *

Edward had been practicing how he would ask Miss Kringle out, it seemed to be his hallucination’s only importance. Edward wasn’t sure if it was to see himself fail or to come out triumphant that was worth more to the reflection. While looking through files in the annex, Miss Kringle walked in, sceptical if perhaps that Edward was taking a moment to reorganize all her files again.

“Oh, hello Miss Kringle.”

“Hello… Mr Nygma.”

“How is your day going?”

“Fine,” she let out a breath.

“Uhm,” Edward closed the cabinet drawer as he prepared himself. “Question for you-“

Miss Kringle looked up at him, waiting. “Yes…?”

“Uhm,” he let out a chortle. “Did you… know that house flies hum in the key of F?”

Miss Kringle raised her shoulders and then relaxed them. “No, no, I did not know that.”

“Okay then.” Edward raised his arms briefly, returned a hand to his hip, staring down at the cabinet in front of him.

“Well, uh,” Miss Kringle nodded awkwardly. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Edward said quickly, as she left with new files in hand.

“Damnit,” Edward exhaled. “We agreed you were going to ask her out. We didn’t agree to ask her, we agreed to think about asking her. But there’s no point, she doesn’t like you.”

 _Maybe she’ll like me. You ever consider that. Maybe she’ll like me. I got confidence. Ladies love that_.

“No, she won’t like you. She won’t. Go away.” Edward seethed towards the apparition. When that didn’t immediately work, he flung the file from the cabinet towards it. “GO AWAY!”

He looked towards the door as an officer walked in, who looked mildly stupefied at what he just witnessed.

“Hey,” Edward waved, attempting to recover.

 _Maybe we should kill that one too, you know… just in case he spills the beans about your craziness_.

* * *

When the Maniax came into the GCPD, it had frozen Miss Kringle in place. She had been down on the first level to deliver a file, Edward had also been present to do the same thing. She stared at the entranceway as they continued to shoot their way through the officers that stood in their way. Edward could tell they were only there to cause as much collateral damage as possible, they wanted to put on a show after all.

One of them – Edward couldn’t even remember his name, his brain was solely focused on Miss Kringle – aimed his submachine gun towards her took aim, and Edward moved quickly to tackle Miss Kringle to the ground, they crawled to hide underneath a desk, as she frantically looked over his wound. There were tears in her eyes, a mix of being terrified of what just happened, and concern for Edward. If it hadn’t hurt so badly, Edward might’ve been more blissful.

“Oh, Edward,” Miss Kringle started, wrapping a scarf she had in her pocket around his upper right arm. She placed his hand on it, telling him to apply pressure. “I’m sorry, I don’t do so well with blood, just keep applying pressure until all of this is over.”

One of the Maniax walked by where they were hiding, and Edward put a finger to his lips. It seemed like they were still killing people even if they were on the brink of death. By the sounds of it – Jerome – had Commissioner Essen in front of her office. There was still ringing in Edward’s ears from the gunfire and he couldn’t tell much of what was going on. He heard a gunshot early on, but Essen was still talking, that was a good sign. Then there was another gunshot and hysterical laughter. Edward closed his eyes firmly, from the pain, and from knowing Essen was no longer speaking. Miss Kringle looked as if she didn’t know what was going on, still struck with panic and fear.

They came out of hiding when they could no longer hear any of the Maniax, crawling over to sit up on the other side of the desk as Lee came out from the M.E.’s office. Edward clutched his arm, the scarf had fallen while they moved. Essen was dead, along with nine other officers. Miss Kringle stayed by his side as the paramedic cleaned up his wound. Edward knew the bullet had only just grazed his arm, thankfully. No permanent damage. Some stitches, aspirin, and a bandage were all he needed.

This was what Harvey Bullock needed to return to the GCPD, ensuring he was at Jim’s side for the ordeal. The aftermath of Essen’s death rocked through the entire GCPD. This was where corruption had left them. They were meant to be protectors of the city, but couldn’t even protect their own brethren.

Perhaps this would change Jim, Edward had thought, in the days that passed. He felt his arm twitch, likely from the remnants of pain he felt. _She owes you now, you know that right_?

He ignored the voice. He couldn’t entertain it right then. The precinct’s new captain had entered, making a speech of how he’d no longer house crookedness, how it was a new day, and then he proceeded to terminate the most corrupt cops on the payroll.

Except for Alvarez, Edward noted, who had shot him a glare during this event.

 _Yes, because I’m going to walk into the new Captain’s office and have your badge taken_. Edward rolled his eyes, hoping Alvarez could see.

This was antithetic for how GCPD had been run for so many years. Did Barnes truly think he could never be bribed or overthrown? Did he even know Gotham? Gotham had never once been on the mend, it was always on a declining slope towards destruction. At least, thankfully, the ginger maniac had been killed by the city’s hero – Theo Galavan. However, with the remaining Maniax still on the loose, it only added to the notion that Gotham would be unalterable.

* * *

Edward had taken to practicing with one of the skeleton’s in his lab, adjusting his glasses up the ridge of his nose before beginning again.

“Miss Kringle, ever since I first laid eyes on you, I’ve felt this deep connection,” Edward cleared his throat. Was it really that difficult? “Perhaps, you’ve felt it too?” He stared at the skeleton, exasperated with himself. “Ugh, how cheesy.” He pushed himself off the counter, stepping closer to the practice Miss Kringle, with a sterner tone. “Miss Kringle, you’ve perhaps felt my affections, from afar. ‘Afar’, really? Oh god… Miss Kringle.”

A wry laugh started from the doorway, Edward already knew whose it was.

“Be quiet,” Edward tried, hoping his double would leave. “I don’t need your opinion.”

 _What you need is to stop mumbling and fumbling and tell her what’s up_.

“Well, she’s been bullied and taken for granted for too long.” _So have you_. “And I want her to understand-”

 _You saved her life! For God’s sake! She owes you. Take what you deserve_.

It was infallible. Miss Kringle should clearly see the man Edward was now. There was no denying his courage in the precinct from that day. Reasonably, she should see Edward as any of the other types she regularly dated. He may not have the same physique, but she must not care for such aesthetic things now. He was her hero after all. With new resolve, he took a blank cue card from his desk, writing “Chez Moi – 805 Grundy”.

Upon entering the annex, he didn’t care that the other officers gawked at him interrupting their conversation with Miss Kringle. This wouldn’t take long, and he wasn’t going to allow another chance to go by for another baboon to whisk her away.

“Miss Kringle,” she turned to face him, her stunning features making Edward’s heart flutter as they usually did. “Dinner, tonight.”

“Uhm…” Miss Kringle started. Edward wasn’t going to let her say no, slipping the piece of paper into her hands.

“Chez Moi. Eight o’clock.”

“Okay, I’d like that.” Miss Kringle said finally, causing a smile to erupt on his features.

“You will,” Edward said confidently, making his double keel over in laughter in the doorway. _There you go, Eddie. Showed her a little confidence, keep it up._

* * *

“Janice Caufield,” Lee started, looking at the name on the file and then at Edward. “She was in the running for mayor, had three kids, was even going to be a grandmother.”

Edward wasn’t too concerned about those specifics, idling at the woman’s neck longer than he needed to draw the proper conclusions. “There are eleven lacerations here, from the right external carotid artery to the common, even down into the brachiocephalic trunk. It’s like they couldn’t keep a level angle when they were stabbing her. She likely drowned in her own blood.”

“Jim said that too, from the scene.” Lee sighed. “There was a lot of anger in this one, almost desperation. From what I understand, Janice Caufield wasn’t a bad woman in the slightest, so someone this angry… I almost want to assume the hatred wasn’t directed at her at all.”

Edward made a sound at the back of his throat. “Perhaps not.”

“Any DNA evidence left on the body?” Lee asked, she really did enjoy having a second set of hands to look over her work. She had already concluded earlier there was none but knew how much Edward liked being involved.

“None at all, ma'am.” Edward pulled away from the body, giving one last glance towards the victim’s neck.

* * *

Edward had prepped the whole evening, no minute wasted to ensure everything on his date with Miss Kringle went off without a hitch. He had perfected his crème brûlée years ago, taking the opportunity to prepare it for the occasion. The doorbell rang as Louis Prima sang through Edward’s bachelor apartment. Edward slid the heavy metal door open, taking in Miss Kringle as she stood there. Done up impeccably, as usual, red hair high, with a green form-fitting sweater dress that made her eyes sparkle.

 _Are you sure it’s not her looks that singularly have you always in such a tussle?_ A voice started from behind Edward.

“I was kind of expecting a restaurant.” Miss Kringle stated, holding up the cue card Edward had given her.

“Miss Kringle, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I should have been more clear.” It had been quite vague. “Uh, I like to cook.” He chuckled, motioning her to come in. “I’m a good cook, is that okay?”

“It is. It is.” Miss Kringle entered the apartment, surveying the interior. Edward felt strangely self-conscious, although he knew everything looked immaculate. He had everything in the exact spot it should be. “Um, and… perhaps you should call me Kristen.”

“Kristen,” Edward nearly sing-songed. He slid the door shut and had her take a seat at the dining table. He brought over the dinner he had prepared, consommé to start, and beef wellington with a side Insalata Caprese for the main event. He’d finish off with the crème brûlée. She seemed to enjoy every last bite, Edward hoped it hadn’t been out of courtesy.

“I feel like, um, I owe you an apology.” Kristen started, after working through the last bit of her salad. “I feel as though I have been nothing but mean to you.”

“No, I don’t think that’s fair.” Edward replied, “I feel like all I’ve ever done is… is annoy you,” he laughed nervously, daring to continue with his honesty. “I’ve been consistently inappropriate.”

“No. No, no, no, no, it’s me.” Kristen offered. “You have been nothing but sweet, and I ignored your card and your… your gift.”

“Miss Kringle, I can honestly say… that our interactions are always the highlight of my day.”

“Please uh… Kristen,” she corrected. Edward hadn’t noticed he had made the mistake. “Oh. My. God, I even accused you of writing Dougherty’s goodbye note.”

 _Well, that’s a subject we didn’t need to come up. Let’s go back to talking about how she really doesn’t mind your creepiness as much as you thought she did_.

“Right.” Edward laughed, more so to try and silence the voice looming somewhere behind him. “Crazy.”

“I mean, oh… who knows what that jerk was thinking?”

 _This night isn’t about him, it’s about you and her, why is this topic still lingering? Does she wonder if we were the ones responsible for the letter_? Edward took a quick sip of the wine from his beaker. “Right, jerk.”

“How I ever let him lay a hand on me, I’ll never know.” There was a sadness to the way she said it, something Edward decided meant she wasn’t biding her time for Edward to slip up about Dougherty’s true whereabouts. _No body, no crime, after_ _all_.

“I’m glad he’s dead.” Oh no, no, no, no. _Eddie_ … The phonograph needle scratched, causing the music to stop. Kristen visibly stiffened, shifting in her seat.

“Well, he’s… he just left town.” She paused. “He’s not… dead.”

 _Fix this, you imbecile_! “Right, yeah, I know. Figure of speech. He’s dead to you. Out of your life. Not dead, dead.”

“Oh, um…” Kristen cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses, raising from the chair. “I’m gonna use the restroom.”

As she walked away, Edward rubbed at the corners of his eyes, knowing what was coming. _You blew it, dummy. Nice work_.

“Leave me alone!” Edward quickly retorted, he could still fix this, except he didn’t realize Kristen had come out of the washroom when he had spoken.

“Are you talking to me?” She asked, slowly walking towards him. She scooped up her purse from next to the table, aiming to leave. _You've really done it now._

“No, honestly Kristen, I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Who else is there?” Kristen asked, looking around the room.

“I talk…” _Big mistake, Eddie, don't do it_. “…to myself. It’s crazy, I know. I just, I have this, um…” _Could this get any worse_? “I have this voice inside my head, a sort of stronger version of me, that keeps this me in line, because I’m such a klutz.”

The momentous part of his confession was that Kristen didn’t turn away, Edward haphazard a guess that she didn’t truly understand what he meant, but at least she didn’t look terrified. She was smiling at him. She was attempting to read him, gain whatever she could out of his quirks, figure out why he talked or acted the way he did, and this was the only way she’d be able to. Not by running away, but by staying and trying to comprehend.

“I can understand that. I think that we all have a voice like that.”

 _If we all had a voice like this, there’d be a lot more dead people in Gotham_.

“You think?” Edward ignored him in the background.

“What was your inner voice saying?”

“He was mad at me for spoiling the mood.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kristen took a step forward, Edward never had her so close. “It was… it was a really nice mood. But my… inner voice is telling me that I think maybe we can get back there.”

Kristen had initiated it, placing her hand on Edward’s shoulder, attempting to entice him to follow through. He leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on her lips, the clink of their glasses ending it quicker than he wanted. They both chuckled, removing their glasses. Without the obstructions, they leaned into each other again. It had felt delicate, Kristen was feathery light, and he savoured their next kisses. He had imagined it exactly as it was, there were no voices in the back of his mind, telling him how to take this. He was enjoying the silence.

They spoke the rest of the evening about menial things until Kristen said it was time to go, Edward walked her to his door and kissed her goodbye. He was about to slide his door shut, when he decided instead a lady shouldn’t walk to her car alone. He rushed to meet her at the elevator, taking the chance to earn another chuckle from her. He bid her adieu at her car, once he had closed the car door. She took the opportunity to roll her window down, asking for one more kiss before she left, and Edward was happy to oblige.

He slept more soundly than he had in months. No harassing voices, no critiques of the evening, just sheer bliss.

* * *

Of the things Edward had remembered from the night before, one of those was that Kristen wanted to have a double date with friends. The only friends Edward had were also, thankfully, dating one another. It meant easy conversations and a comfortable setting. Edward wouldn’t have to be immediately cautious of Lee or Jim.

He approached the two in the morning, interrupting their conversation.

“Morning, Ed.” Jim said abruptly.

“Detective, Miss Thompkins.” Edward smiled warmly, hoping to sweeten the deal of what he was about to propose. “As you may have heard, I’ve recently been seeing Miss Kringle.” He adjusted his glasses, needing to make a correction. “Kristen.” Lee nodded. “And she mentioned that it might be nice to go out with other people along, so I thought, perhaps, the two of you would enjoy joining us for dinner tonight.”

“We can’t.” Jim immediately answered.

“We’d love to,” Lee said at the same time.

After exchanging glances with Lee, Jim changed his answer, “sure. Yeah, yeah, no. Great.”

“As a matter of fact, I just bought some new fondue pots. Why don’t we do it at my house?” Lee added.

“Excellent, excellent,” Edward replied ecstatically. “I’ll go tell Kristen.”

Lee and Jim exchanged glances again, waiting until Edward had left to begin talking with one another.

* * *

“Mr Nygma, correct?” Nathaniel Barnes approached the scientist's desk on the upper floor, glancing at the files that were strewn about. “Do you normally keep your desk so disorganized?”

Edward laughed nervously, pushing the files together to give a semblance of alignment. “No, no, heavens no, I’m just trying to tie together some fires that have occurred in a specific area recently. You see, I found-“

Barnes waved a hand impatiently in front of him, halting Edward’s rambling. “Mr Nygma-“

“Ed, please.” Edward corrected, earning a twitch from Barnes. He noted to not interrupt his boss again. He was certainly improving on reading cues. He had Jim and Lee to thank for that.

“Ed, you’ve familiarized yourself with the Penguin case file, have you not?”

“I- no, sorry, what?” Edward’s brows furrowed, looking over his desk to see if someone had dropped a file off. Or perhaps Barnes had been snooping through his desk, finding the compartment…

“I guess you didn’t get the memo.” Barnes sighed, reaching into the in-basket hanging from Edward’s desk, pulling the file from there. “We’re expending all our resources into Oswald Cobblepot, and building the best case we can to have him sent to prison for good.”

“I-I still… um, perhaps I still don’t understand.” Edward was trying to choose his words carefully, hands raised as he explained. “I must have missed some events since yesterday, but normally Mr Penguin is fairly meticulous in the way he works.”

“He slipped up,” Barnes looked positively thrilled with that. “Left a witness at the Caufield campaign house, could identify his gait from a mile away. He also sent an assassin after Hobbs – Victor Zsasz, who at this point is well-known to be associated with Penguin.”

“O-oh, I see.”

“I need you to help add to this case file, anything you might have that could help. Past or present, any links, any hard evidence that might have been missed. If needed, go back into previous cases, find whatever you can that places Penguin. Extortion, bribery, murder, theft, anything, and everything. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr Barnes.”

“End of the day, Mr Nygma. Time is ticking.”

Edward didn’t bother correcting him on his name. He supposed the captain had done it to reciprocate Edward’s own politeness in calling him by his last name. He waited for Barnes to be out of sight before opening the false board in his drawer and retrieving the file he held there. He had already inserted the file on Mrs Caulfield the previous day, now he’d add the attempted murder of Hobbs in there as well. Perhaps he’d also have to add anything he had read of Victor Zsasz since Carmine Falcone had stepped down.

This also added an element to the Caulfield murder. Edward thought of how Lee had pointed out the sheer anger in the killing, almost desperation. Penguin hadn’t done the Hobbs murder himself, sent someone else to do it. Perhaps he picked Caulfield since she was a woman and easy to kill. He had avoided Hobbs because he knew he would be guarded and Zsasz would be more effective.

It didn’t explain _why_. Clearly, Barnes didn’t care why. He wanted justice where it was due, and it didn’t matter what Penguin’s end game was. It did matter to Edward though, needing to understand why Penguin would jeopardize all that he had gained. He was at his peak for growth and prosperity, he gained nothing from murdering prospect mayors. He earned unwanted attention, that would only drive everything he built into a grave.

Edward didn’t have answers. He copied out his assumptions of the Caulfield murder into the file Barnes had left in his inbox, added various documents from Zsasz related events, but did not add the older files he had. He didn’t want Penguin locked away for life, although the crimes he’d already committed would have him sent away for good. Edward just didn’t want to play a larger part in letting Gotham’s mastermind get sent away.

After all, Penguin was a builder – from what Edward gathered. Not a destroyer. He strived to make crime in Gotham structured, legitimized, useful, non-combative in the sense there weren’t multiple parties constantly fighting at each other’s throats like Maroni, Fish, and Falcone. Penguin would sit at the head of the table, and rule.

The end of the day came and Edward placed the file delicately on the captain’s desk, almost wanting to take it back and burn it. Although he knew that would’ve been useless, all the information had likely been saved elsewhere too.

“Nice work, Mr Nygma.” Barnes had said, once he looked through the file. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Rodger Dodger,” Edward said awkwardly, hightailing it out of the office to the Records Annex so he could enjoy his evening with Kristen and the only people he called friends.

* * *

“When cheese melts, the protein matrix relaxes and the fats flow more like liquid. It creates this low-friction mouthfeel, which is why melted cheese is so…” Edward rambled to a seemingly interested Lee.

“Ed,” Kristen tried to shush him. “Uh, it’s delicious.” Kristen took out one of the fondue sticks, both laughing as she placed the dripping cheese into his mouth, some of it falling into Edward’s lap. “Oh, no!” Kristen laughed, passing him a napkin. “Oh, Lee, we shouldn’t be eating without Jim here. I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, no, please, eat. It’s fine.” Lee ensured. The door to Lee’s apartment opened, Jim entered, immediately apologizing.

Edward waited until Jim had put his suit jacket away, wine glass in hand. “Pardon me, since Detective Gordon is here, I’d like to propose a toast.”

Kristen took her glass in her hand, raising it slightly. Lee and Jim took their seats.

“The less you have, the more they’re worth,” Edward continued, raising his glass. “To friends.”

“Hear, hear!” Jim agreed. They all raised their glasses, clinking them together.

They talked briefly of work, before Kristen shot the conversation down. Instead, Lee and Edward had dropped into a heated debate of how effective biofeedback rewiring could be, Edward on the side for it, Lee being opposed, saying the brain was still too fragile. Their debate was amicable, and it gave Jim the opportunity to see how they must work with one another. It also gave Jim a new appreciation of Edward. He had truly thought the evening would’ve been filled with awkward comments, various riddles, or random klutzy accidents, he was pleasantly surprised instead. It had meant there had been growth, that Kristen gave Edward a composed sense of self. That was progress. All good relationships carried a comfort for personal change.

* * *

 Edward had found himself routinely preoccupied with the new captain’s ambitions. He had Edward working eleven different cases at the same time. Not that this was difficult for Edward, just time-consuming. Barnes didn’t seem to trust other people’s work, which had Edward thinking he should be appreciative that his new boss already thought highly of him, but the day came when he knew he wasn’t exactly in Barnes’s good graces.

Edward had used the break room’s espresso machine to his satisfaction, creating a heart with the milk steamer, intent on bringing the mug to Kristen as quickly as he could before the froth settled.

“Excuse me, Mr Nygma, a word?” Barnes called as Edward passed by his office. Edward took a deep breath, composing himself from the annoyance of having his mission impeded. He entered the captain’s office, holding the mug as still as he could.

“Yes, sir.” Edward had picked up that Barnes had been military, using the polite salute should help earn some respect. Barnes didn’t smile.

“Have you finished looking at the case files on Gotham’s firebugs?”

“Yes, all forty-seven of them in the last three months.” Edward counted in his head briefly to ensure he hadn’t missed any of them. “Forty-eight if we count what happened last night, and I assume another one this evening.”

“Potentially, hopefully, it’ll stay at forty-eight,” Barnes sighed, raising from his desk to meet Edward at the door. “I was reading your personnel file over again, Mr Nygma.”

His tone was making Edward nervous, but he couldn’t shift his glasses uncomfortably or move very much for fear of losing the quality heart in the mug. Why would Barnes be looking into his file? There was no need. Edward was a model employee.

“Yo- you can always find me in the past, I can be created in the present,” Edward didn’t notice that the captain’s hand shot up to shush him, “but the future can never taint me? What am I?”

Barnes looked over Edward dubiously, tempted to play along. “History. Yes, I was looking at your work history.”

“Water under the bridge, right sir?” Edward laughed nervously, happy the captain had answered correctly.

“To an extent. I hope you don’t mind the extra workload, Mr Nygma.”

“No, sir. Keeps me busy throughout the day.”

“Hopefully it’ll turn you into less of a troublemaker with your coworkers.”

Edward furrowed his brow. “S-sorry?”

“I’ve had a few complaints of weird outbursts, or generally… you talking to yourself.”

“That doesn’t really make me a troublemaker-“

“It makes people uncomfortable.”

“That wasn’t my intention-“

“Mr Nygma, stop interrupting,” Barnes said more forcefully, abruptly shutting Edward up. He stepped closer, just a foot away from the scientist. “I think your suspension was lifted far too quickly a couple of months ago, you should’ve been properly punished for doing a job that was not your own. You routinely disobey direct orders. Luckily, you have someone willing to stick their neck out for you now, but don’t think for one second she’ll always be around. When I tell you to find out whatever you can on something, you do it without hiding anything, you understand that, right?”

“Y-yes, I understand.”

“Then tell me, Mr Nygma, why your desk drawer isn’t as large as everyone else’s?” Barnes started, Edward opened his mouth to start with an excuse, but Barnes was walking back to his desk, and that’s where Edward noticed the open file… the one he did what he could to keep hidden. Barnes smirked, motioning towards the file. “Oh, yes, because you put in a false door.”

“I-I… don’t, you, what, I-“

Barnes quickly raised his hand again, pursing his lips. “I just want to know why you kept this from me.”

Edward’s brain was working at a deafening speed, he was finding it difficult to contain his thoughts, he couldn’t even fathom why Barnes had been compelled to look through Edward’s drawers. He never gave off any indication he hadn’t been honest with his work… or had he? He had tried to cover up his lies, what had gone wrong?

“I understand you’re taking your time to answer,” Barnes sighed again, closing the file on his desk and plopping down in his chair, it gave a squeak from the added weight. The wheels squealed as Barnes moved his legs underneath his desk. “When you handed me that file the other day, you seemed like you were holding back. Even when I asked ‘is that all?’ You took a moment – like you are now, to answer in a way that wasn’t a lie. I’ve been working as a cop for twenty years Mr Nygma, everyone has tells, even someone as intelligent as you.”

Edward tried to open his mouth again but was met with another raised hand. _If he keeps shutting us down, I might have to shut him down_.

“Here’s what I think, Mr. Nygma. I think this whole precinct has been under misguided leadership, and you took it upon yourself to look into the corruption. You knew that mob hits would get swept under the rug, but maybe if you kept up with it, down the line, you could relieve Gotham from the treacherous hold of its sycophants.” Barnes was still staring icily at Edward, who was maintaining his composure with great difficulty. The frothy heart in the mug was melting into the moccacino. “Well, here I am. Ready to take on Gotham and all its miscreants, so let’s not keep secrets from one another, eh, Mr Nygma?”

Edward was thankful more than ever for Barnes’s more nobler than thou attitude, it had produced an out for him. He nodded sheepishly towards his boss, “yes, sir. I apologize for keeping it from you, it’s just been so hard with all the officers here. You never know who you can trust. So many people have been killed already.” Edward forced a shudder as he spoke. “It- I just… worry for my own safety, I still hear the ringing in my ears from the gunfire. I still feel the pain from where the bullet grazed my arm.”

Barnes raised from his desk steadily, looking at Edward gravely. “You were a hero that day, you saved a life.”

“I- I know. I just worry if I were- If I had given you this information, that someone would’ve come back to hurt myself or Miss Kringle.” Edward sniffed. “Most of this was circumstantial, loose links.”

“It’s invaluable,” Barnes reassured, picking up the file and handing it back to Edward. “I want a copy of all of it, with an official written report on my desk by noon.”

Edward nodded, his thoughts cackling around him.

“Oh, and Mr Nygma?” Barnes called before he could leave the office. “No more hidden drawers in your desk, yes?”

“Yes, Mr Barnes.” Edward agreed. He walked back to the break room, releasing a large breath.

 _Dummy, I told you to bring those documents home_. Edward couldn’t reply to the voice, not in the most social area of the precinct. If people had been talking amongst themselves of Edward’s recent… mood swings, he couldn’t answer it anymore. His double was a nightmare. He had seldom been around as of late, primarily only appearing when Edward was under stress, and Edward couldn’t have been more thankful. But even the smallest bit of rage or concern sent Edward spiralling in his thoughts, hearing laughter and insults.

He quickly remade Kristen’s drink, headed towards the Records Annex, hoping handing it to her would greatly alleviate his mood. He overheard Kristen and Lee talking, and Edward… being quite himself, felt the need to eavesdrop when he heard Dougherty’s name come up.

“Well, he just up and moved out of town.” Kristen was answering whatever Lee had asked. “It was rude and inconsiderate and perfectly in character for Tom Dougherty?”

“Do you ever wonder where he went?” Lee asked.

 _Why would it matter? She’s better off – she’s with us, was that a problem_?

“He could be dead in a ditch for all I care.”

Absolute roaring laughter overtook the hallway, thankfully only heard by Edward _. If only you knew_.

“Kristen…” Lee criticized her choice of wording.

“And I mean it, too. He, um… he wasn’t very nice to me.”

“That’s awful.” Lee’s motherly tone had finally understood the resentment Kristen felt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, but it all worked out for the best.”

“I know! You and Ed seem to be getting along.”

Kristen chuckled, feeling her cheeks flush, thankfully her layers of makeup wouldn’t give that away. “He is so gentle and kind. Almost… too gentle. I-I think a man needs to have a little… a little fire, a little danger in him, don’t you think?”

 _Didn’t I tell you she’d prefer me? Here we have it folks, the true testament of Kristen Kringle, needing more of a man to contend for her heart since Eddie is having so much difficulty… just how long do you think this will last if you don’t fulfil her every desire_?

 _She doesn’t just want nice, Ed, she wants_ \- another voice started, reminiscent of Dougherty. _She wants me, of course. She wants one of those other officers who constantly linger in her office, any of them ready to pick up the pieces when you two break up, and you know it’ll be her that dumps you. You also know just how quickly she moves on_.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Lee laughed, knowing all too well what fire did in relationships. Jim had his only inner demons for her to constantly fret over.

“And sometimes I-I feel like he’s holding something back from me.”

 _We did kill your ex-boyfriend_.

“Like a secret?”

“I don’t know.” Kristen acknowledged. “I just… I guess I just wish he would open up a little more.”

Edward couldn’t listen to the voices openly criticizing him for every little thing Kristen was saying, finally opening the door to walk in casually. “Good morning! Miss Kringle, Miss Thompkins!”

“Hi.” Lee smiled.

“What do you call a three-legged cow?” Edward asked, outstretching his arm with his wrist bent downwards and three fingers extended.

“I am terrible…” Lee started.

“Lean beef,” Kristen answered excitedly.

“Or supper, at my place,” Edward demanded cheerily, he handed her the mug before leaving the annex.

“Oh… Ed.” Kristen turned the mug around so Lee could see into it.

“Aww,” Lee said affectionately.

* * *

With Peggy Lee in the background, Edward was admiring the way Kristen ate all the food on her plate in record timing. He had experimented with a different broth for the soup that she seemed to think was mouthwatering, and had gulped down the mashed potatoes and seasoned chicken just as quickly.

“These were the best potatoes I have ever had,” Kristen said, all smiles. Edward had enjoyed that her hair was completely down, almost signalling to a new level of comfort between them. “I swear, I’m gonna get plump.”

“I like that you have an appetite.” Edward encouraged. He was certain he could never be in the presence of a less attractive Kristen, even if she did gain weight. He didn’t care for things like that, despite what his double said of… aesthetic appeal.

“Stop it, you’re spoiling me.”

“I won’t stop it. I want nothing more than to spoil you.” Edward stated he was attempting a new tone, something his double and him decided a few hours prior. If the double couldn’t take over, the least Edward could do was take his advice. It had been awhile since Edward had seen his full hallucination anyway, just merely the voices lingered.

“Oh, Ed. So forceful.” Kristen adjusted her glasses, a glimmer of… something coming across her features. Edward didn’t know what it was.

 _See, at least it’s working_. Clearly, his inner self knew that look. How was that even possible?

“There’s something else I want to tell you. I just…” Edward was treading cautiously, hoping that the words would flow. “I don’t want to scare you away.”

“Please, tell me anything. Do not hold back.”

 _Don’t forget that she likes to gossip though, Eddie. She won’t hold her tongue around Lee_ …

Edward pushed out from his chair, moving towards her with an outstretched hand, guiding her into an embrace. “Kristen… I like you very much.”

“I… I feel the same way about you,” Kristen replied, bringing herself closer to Edward.

“And, um…”

“And… shhh.” Kristen interrupted, placing two fingers against his lips.

 _People really like to shut you up, don’t they Ed?_ He heard Dougherty mock in the background.

Kristen’s lips were on his before he could contain the previous thought, they broke apart and Kristen clutched at Edward’s shoulder, wrapping her other arm around Edward’s neck and brought them into a more forceful kiss. Kristen let go briefly, that same gleam in her eye from before.

 _Lust, you moron_.

“Mr Nygma, is that your bedroom over there?” Kristen asked, her eyes off Edward for a moment to look over his shoulder.

_Well, it’s pretty easy to see your bedroom from anywhere, you live in a bachelor apartment, you literally pass it to walk to the kitchen…_

“Why, yes, it is.”

Everything about the subsequent events had the room littered in inexperienced laughter, strewn clothes, and messy hair. Edward hadn’t known where exactly to put his hands, or what exactly to do other than the obvious, but he had an excellent teacher.

 _Makes you wonder how many she’s been with, doesn’t it_? The voices had clawed back into Edward’s mind when they had finished, Kristen nuzzled against his chest. His hair completely tousled, taking on the curly shape it did when he was freshly showered.

 _Doesn’t it though_? Dougherty again. _After all, I was a much more efficient partner, I’m sure. I wasn’t her first, she wasn’t mine, you know. She didn’t need to baby me, I took care of her like a real man. Now that she’s been with you, she’ll go back to her actual type. You could never hope to satisfy_ -

Edward shook his head, making Kristen stir. She unravelled herself from him, looking parched. Edward went over to the sink, returning with a cup of water. He sat next to her in the bed, Edward wondered what the emotion was he saw in her.

“You’re so sweet,” she began, a little saddened.

 _Didn’t I tell you? You can’t satisfy her. She’s already developing an escape strategy_.

“Kristen, what’s the matter?” Edward was determined not to jump to conclusions.

“Um… I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of Tom Dougherty,” she continued, “he used to tell me… if he ever saw me with another man, he would kill me.” _Well, that’s_ _true_. The Dougherty hallucination confirmed, all smug. “I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Edward reassured, quietly.

 _Eddie, I know where you think you want to go with this, but you can’t. She can’t know. That won’t go the way you think it will. No amount of ‘like’ she feels towards you will conquer you murdering her ex-boyfriend. Get that damn thought out of your head_ -

“No… you don’t know him. He is…” Kristen exhaled, “a monster.”

“Listen to me,” Edward tried to ignore the voices telling him he was also a monster. “You do not need to worry about Tom Dougherty.” Edward pulled her knuckles to his lips, kissing them firmly.

“You are sweet,” it almost seemed like prying the way she was wording the conversation, hoping to elicit something new from Edward. Was he that easy to manipulate? “But… you’re not a fighter. You couldn’t possibly take him on.”

 _Don’t do it, Eddie, she won’t understand_.

“Trust me, it’s been taken care of.”

“What does that mean?” Kristen asked, with a somewhat amused expression.

 _Eddie… how many times do I have to tell you_ -

“Um…” Edward started to recount. “Some time ago, he and I had an altercation. I asked him to treat you with more respect-“

“Oh, my God.” Kristen interrupted, still holding his hand against the sheets. He really wished she wouldn’t interrupt.

“And he said he would treat you any way he liked and he assaulted me.”

“Oh, my God!” Kristen said again, brows furrowed, clamping down on his hand.

“So, anyhow, long story short…” Edward paused, looking at her. “I killed him.”

Kristen burst into a chuckle. “Oh, Ed, that’s… you had me going for a minute there.”

 _Leave it be, let her think it’s a joke, can’t you see how she’s going to react_ -

“It was outside of your apartment under the elevated train. I stabbed him and he died.”

“Ed, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not being funny.” Edward continued. _Don’t bring the trophy out-_ He moved to the steel drawers next to his bed, pulling out the badge he had tucked away. He pushed the bed covers towards Kristen as he sat down, and he lifted the badge for her to see.

“T. Dougherty-“

“Do you believe me now?”

“Oh, my God.” Realization dawned on her quicker than Edward had to react.

“What’s wrong?”

“How could you?” Kristen flung the bedsheets, hurriedly standing to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Edward tried as she moved towards her scattered clothes. “No, please sit down.” Edward reached towards her, she slapped his hands away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Would you please let me explain?”

“There is nothing to explain! I don’t even know who you are.” She grabbed at her clothes, pointing an accusing finger at him. “No, that’s wrong. You are a murderer!”

“He was a monster! You said so! He was abusing you!” Edward’s throat felt like it was filled with charcoal, he attempted to approach her.

“I can’t believe I even fell for you, you sicko.” She shouted, draping her clothes over her arm and grabbing her purse, aiming for the door.

 _You can’t let her leave, everyone will know_.

“I’m not sick. I love you. I did it for you.”

 _Maybe not the opportune moment for a declaration of love, Eddie. At least try to defuse the situation_.

“Everything I ever thought about you, I was right. I should have my head examined.”

“Don’t say that-“

“Wait, what were you doing outside my house?”

Edward couldn’t handle this line of questioning. He needed it to stop, the voices were beginning to dominate. His movements were beginning to feel detached. “I was worried for you.”

“You were stalking me!” The realization gave her rage to her tone. “You are a psychopath!”

“That is not true! That’s not who I am.” Edward was desperate, he felt so out of mind, out of control. “Don’t say that about me.”

“You are going to prison where they will do horrible things to you, things that you deserve.”

 _I warned you about her tongue, Ed_.

 _Now now, we’re not going to prison for a crime of passion, are we, Eddie? He deserved it_.

“Don’t say that to me!” He took a step forward, Miss Kringle took a defensive step away, but he knew he couldn’t let her go. If she could only see! If she’d only listen. He grabbed her arms, which she struggled against.

“No, let go. Don’t touch me!” Kristen continued to struggle, able to retrieve one of her arms to land a hard slap on Edward’s cheek. She moved to open his door, but Edward was already grabbing her again, pulling her back. He turned her to face him again, pressing her back against the steel door.

“Let go of me, you freak.”

 _Well, time well spent Eddie, but this one needs to go_.

No, she could still understand. She could still see if only to understand how he felt towards her.

“Please don’t call me that.”

She grabbed the vase next to them on the bedside table, smashing it against Edward’s head. She moved to open the door again, screaming, “help!”

Edward recovered, his vision blurred, his glasses had fallen somewhere on the floor, and he could barely make out the fear in her eyes as he shoved her back against the door again. He clasped a hand over her mouth, the other to her throat without even realizing.

“Listen to me! I am not the man that you think I am. I would never do anything to hurt you. I had to kill him because he hit you. Do you understand that?” The grip on her neck was like a vice, but Edward couldn’t tell that’s where his other hand had gone. All he saw was the hand over her mouth, the very faint look in her eye, could hardly tell she was having difficulty struggling against him from lack of breath. He thought that meant she could hear him, that she was understanding. “I did it for you. I promise I will never do anything to hurt you ever again. I love you.” She had visibly relaxed, no longer trying to speak against his hand, still not noticing the grip he had on her throat. “I’ve loved you since the first moment that I saw you.”

He released the grip on her mouth, his other hand falling too. Her back slid against the door, her whole body dropping to the floor lifelessly. “Kristen? Kristen?” Edward tried, he looked over the marks on her neck. “Oh, no, no, no…” They were beginning to visibly darken. “Oh, no, please. Oh no, no no no.” He checked for her breathing, placing his ear next to her mouth. Nothing. “Please, no.” He sobbed. He grabbed her chin, turning her towards him. This wasn’t real. “No, no! Please Please no.” He clutched her in his arms, releasing a strangled cry.

* * *

Edward woke in the early morning from the floor, his entire sleep wrought with nightmares, and a crick in his neck so massive he hadn’t wanted to move. He had momentarily forgotten all that occurred hours prior. He had tucked away Miss Kringle’s body in his bed sheets, idly wishing it would all be a dream when he woke up. He scoured the floor for his cell phone, which had started to incessantly vibrate again.

Four missed calls from the GCPD.

 _Rise and shine_ , his voice rang from near the windows, the sound of hands clapping met Edward’s ears, along with that damn laugh.

“What are you doing here? You’ve just been a voice, not an actual hallucination as of late. I banished you.”

 _You tried. Almost. Love of a good woman and all of that. Though, we both know how that turned out. Yikes_.

“That was an accident. I’m not that man. I’m gonna make this right.” Edward rubbed at his eyes, he could feel himself about to cry. He was also overheating, covered in sweat from the nightmare he’d woken up from, which had been pegged in reality.

 _See, I knew you’d wake up all boo-hooey. You probably have half a mind to turn yourself in. Luckily, I have the other half._ Why did he always have to be so smug _? Do you like magic tricks_?

“What?” Edward seethed.

 _Of course you like magic tricks. After all, I do_. He didn’t wait for Edward to answer. _Well, guess what? I can make a body_ _disappear_?

He gasped, turning frantically, clutching his bed where he had left Miss Kringle. No, no, no. Only a small purple envelope with a gold question mark was left. “Where is she? Where is Miss Kringle’s body?”

 _Open the envelope_.

Edward ripped the inner card out, looking up at his double before beginning to read it. “I hid her body while you were catching some Zs, you’ll need a helping hand, so look for her initials down at the GCPD.” Edward’s eyes grew wide. “You went to my work last night?”

 _Well, technically, you did. I was just in the driver’s seat, so to speak_.

“How? You’re a figment of my imagination. A projection of impulse, nothing more.”

 _That is uncalled for_.

“Uncalled for?” Edward said incredulously, “you hijacked my body while I was asleep and you stole my dead girlfriend!”

The hallucination laughed. _Okay, yeah, that’s true. But I’m doing this for your own good. If I was you… which, again, I sort of am… I’d get cracking! You do want to find the body first, right_?

Edward leapt to this feet, he didn’t have time to change, style his hair, or even bother brushing his teeth. He couldn’t have someone else find her, could he? He paused, if he did let someone else find her, well that just meant it gave him an opportunity to confess. He needed to do so, she was everything she said he was. He deserved the punishment set to be bestowed on him. He had murdered two people! Perhaps they had both been accidental, but he was a killer now. There was no sugar coating that. He needed to be exposed, charged, sent away!

 _Oh, Eddie, stop now. Let’s just focus on one thing at a time, all right_?

Edward nodded, looking around his apartment and its disarray.

 _Clean it later, you’ve got bigger fish to fry_. The double reminded him.

He had purchased the exact same make, model, and colour of the car he had before. He didn’t want someone from the precinct asking him why he had changed his car, choosing to take the least worst option. Edward’s double had told him perhaps he should layer his trunk in a protective lining in preparation for the day’s activities. He took several garbage bags from his apartment, stretching them to every crevice of the trunk. It would have to suffice.

Edward had driven far too recklessly to the precinct, desperate to get there before the day shift crew showed up. He was trying to rack his brain for why initials were so important, he deduced to immediately search for anything in the precinct that contained “KK”.

He was still covered in sweat from the stress, trampling his way through the GCPD. Several attempts to find ‘KK’ had come up empty until an officer walked by eating a chocolate bar. Edward had a visible lightbulb moment, rushing to the break room. He hadn’t anything to bar the door shut, as he moved to the vending machine with extreme vigour, pulling out several dollars, and placing one one dollar bill in. He pressed ‘KK’ once and nothing, a second time, still nothing, finally a third – after a brief scare he’d be caught by a wayward officer – and there was the hand of Miss Kringle. He pressed the button frantically, shoving his money into the machine.

Finally, the hand came loose, falling into the dispenser. Edward took it out, staring at it briefly before shoving it into his inside suit jacket’s pocket and rushing to the forensic lab.

He was ambushed by Lee, outside the hallway door that led to his lab.

“Is your phone not working? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours.” Lee asked him, brows scrunching as she looked him over. “Ed- you look terrible, are you okay?”

“J-just woke up with a… um, fever is all. Nothing aspirin can’t fix.” Edward forced out a smile, manhandling the detached hand in his pocket while Lee continued to scrutinize him. He pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Sorry, I guess I missed your calls. What’s up? Why are you here so early?”

“There was a whole commotion at the docks, we’ve only just recovered a few bodies, and I needed your help with them. One of them is Gertrud Kapelput, Penguin’s mother. Every time I try to approach Jim about it he keeps being pulled away. He hadn’t been the lead detective on it, but I thought he might want to know.”

At the explanation, chatter erupted in the precinct as an injured Mayor-to-be-Galavan marched to the captain’s office, Harvey Dent in tow.

“Clearly I won’t be able to share the news anytime soon. Alvarez has already been here twice looking to get the bodies taken to the morgue.” Lee sighed. “I’m starting to the feel like the morgue is actually a front for mobster clean up.”

“I don’t think you’re far off.” Edward clenched his eyes shut briefly, his thoughts still reeling from everything to do with Miss Kringle, but also figuring out why Penguin had been so adamant about killing mayoral candidates and setting fires.

“I think Penguin was coerced into doing everything he’s done the last couple of weeks,” Lee suggested and tilted her head towards the captain’s office. “Strange that our future mayor comes in injured within hours of Kapelput showing up, isn’t it?”

Edward smirked, a different fondness growing for her. “Why, Miss Thompkins, are you suggesting that our Mayor-to-be isn’t as innocent as he seems?”

Lee rolled her eyes, still concerned for the way Edward was carrying himself, especially now with all his sudden enthusiasm. “It’s very circumstantial. You should go nurse that fever, Ed. I’ll continue to ward off Alvarez, but you really should consider taking the day off. I’ll even call Kristen and have her drop off some soup if you go home!”

Edward smiled weakly. She shook her head, knowing he wasn’t going to listen. He watched as Lee attempted to interrupt the meeting in the captain's office, but no luck. Galavan looked like he was giving a speech, Dent looked like he was about to hang a man and Jim… Jim looked like he was in utter disbelief. Lee was pulled away by another coworker, unable to get a moment to talk with her boyfriend.

From what Edward later gathered, Galavan had stated he was attacked by the _lunatic_ Penguin, and being the hero he was, would continue with his mayoral victory celebration. Edward wanted to understand more, but he had more pressing issues.

He rushed to his lab, pulling the hand from inside his jacket and placing it under the large desk light. He looked at it curiously, noting it was indeed Miss Kringle’s, the manicure matched hers from yesterday, he turned it over, noticing the small incision in the centre of her palm. He pulled the small piece of paper out, unravelling it. He had to take a moment to despise his affliction for puzzles.

“I’m tired of hiding and want to be free. To locate her body, find the two things missing from me.”

 _The back of our head kind of looks funny. It’s like the top of a pencil_.

Edward was furious, “why are you doing this?”

 _Because… it’s fun_! He was growing so tired of the taunting. _And it’s good for you_.

“How is it good for me to be tortured? To be driven insane!”

 _I’m trying to show you who you are. How have you not realized that yet? Though, to be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t figured out this riddle yet. Should I have made it easier_?

Edward looked back at the small piece of paper, re-reading it. “You could start by using proper grammar. A period at the end of a sentence is a syno… ‘ _find the two things missing from ME_ ’ M period, E period.” Realization hit Edward like a train car. “Oh, God, M.E. medical examiner… you didn’t!”

 _I did_.

Edward rushed out of the room and down an opposing hallway until he stopped outside the Medical Examiner’s office. He took a deep breath, hoping that Lee had kept to her normally scheduled coffee break. He gathered he wouldn’t have much time, he needed to get the body out as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to butcher and dissolve Miss Kringle like he had Officer Dougherty, she deserved a proper send off.

He looked around the M.E.’s office, noticing that one of the mortuary cabinets had a label with a question mark hanging from its door handle. He pulled the stretcher out, exhaling as he looked at the remainder of Miss Kringle's body. He’d also briefly been concerned he’d only find another piece to her rather than the whole body. He looked at her for what seemed the eleventh time, grief coming over him again.

The door opened to the M.E.’s office, Edward hadn’t immediately noticed.

“Ed-“ Lee called out as Edward retracted his hand from Miss Kringle’s face.

“Oh my,” he muttered, about to push the stretcher back into place.

“What are you doing?”

Edward turned around finally, meeting her gaze. His brow still sleek with sweat. “Dr Thompkins, hello again. Uh, I’m just… double-checking notes for a Jane Doe case I’m working.”

“Do you need help?” Lee asked, peering over his shoulder.

“No! No, no, no. She’s all gone.” Edward shook his head, trying to correct his wording. “Or she’s… I’m sorry, I’m… I’m all done checking my notes.”

“Uh, what notes?” Lee pointed out, seeing as how Edward had no pad in his hand.

“It’s all up here,” Edward said, pointing towards his head, quietly laughing. “Do you realize that by assigning simple mnemonic devices to case files, you can produce recall capacity equal to that of photographic or even eidetic memory?”

“Ed, what’s going on?” Lee knew why Edward would be rambling - only if he had something to be nervous about.

“Okay,” Edward gathered his thoughts, trying to step in between Lee and the body. “Um, truth be told, uh… I was hoping to run into you here. Alone. It’s Miss Kringle. Uh… we had a fight.”

Lee visibly relaxed, “I’m sorry.” She brushed her hand along Edward’s arm, hoping it would soothe him. “Every relationship hits a rough patch now and then.”

“And you’ve been so supportive. And I was hoping that maybe we- we could go grab a coffee and you could give me some advice.”

“Uh, do you want to finish up what you were doing first?” Lee motioned towards the body, taking a step that Edward prevented.

“No, no, no, no, I… I can come back another time.”

“It’s not like they’re gonna go anywhere, right?” Lee laughed, Edward didn’t immediately laugh back.

“You’d think so.”

Lee had gotten pulled away for a couple of hours before they could go out for coffee, putting Edward in a particularly concerned state. He knew it would only be him or Lee that ever touched that gurney, but it was unsettling how long it was taking for him to get rid of the body.

They sat down at a café around the corner from the precinct, Edward still far too anxious about the day’s event to even enjoy the green tea Lee had graciously bought him.

“I wasn’t going to get you anything with too much caffeine, you do have a fever still, right?” Lee asked him as he poured a generous amount of honey into the drink.

“Y-yes,” Edward stammered, forgetting for a moment that that was the excuse he had told Lee earlier. The doctor took her time talking to Edward about relationships, how sometimes fights happen, how it’s important to realize that both parties were likely at fault. Lee had asked him what the fight had been about, and he said it was about him not opening up enough to her. Lee would believe that since her and Miss Kringle had just been talking about it the day before.

Lee nodded, placing a comforting hand on Edward’s arm again, whenever the moment called for it. Lee was a good friend. Edward almost felt ungrateful towards her value, for putting her through any of this. He almost felt guilty for lying to her about what was going on. He almost wanted to tell her the truth. Except she was Jim Gordon’s girlfriend and that would be the quickest way to a jail cell.

The more time had passed since killing Miss Kringle, the more Edward didn’t feel compelled to turn himself in. He had mourned Miss Kringle briefly, but after nearly being caught twice while trying to recoup her remains – he felt invigorated. It had been different. He was in and out in the conversation with Lee, ensuring once in awhile she was still talking about relationships – and nodding or giving a sad look to play up his sadness.

Finally, she mentioned the case of Gertrud Kapelput and Edward’s eyes focused on her. “I was right, it seems.”

“You got to talk to Jim?” Edward asked.

“Yes, only briefly on the phone. I had attempted to tell him earlier about it, but he seemed so stressed I put it off. I called him before he went to plan everything out for the mayor’s congratulatory party. It seems he had a run in with Butch Gilzean, Penguin’s muscle up until recently. Butch gave up how Theo Galavan and his sister had kidnapped Gertrud Kapelput, held her for two weeks, making Penguin do whatever biding they needed of him.”

“And then they killed her? But why?” Edward yearned for the answer, it seemed so obscene, killing someone’s family for little gain. “It seems so petty, they got what they wanted out of him.”

“Yes, but it’s never truly enough for people like that, is it? They knew it would make Penguin furious, push him towards the GCPD, towards imprisonment.”

Edward felt like puzzle pieces were aligning, “he’s their fall man. No matter which end they look at, Mr Penguin looks guilty. He needs his revenge. He has to make a spectacle to go after Galavan, to even get anywhere near him now that he’s mayor, and the evidence will be piled up against him.”

Lee shrugged. She finished her coffee, looking at her phone briefly. “Oh, I nearly forgot! I need to head uptown for an appointment. You’ll be okay, right Ed? Please get some rest soon.” He nodded. She grabbed her purse and gave one last squeeze to Edward’s arm before leaving.

Edward made his way back to the GCPD, feeling like he had ample time now. He stopped by the evidence locker, pulling another unused trunk for his afternoon activities. He re-entered the M.E.’s office, mood dampened by the next activities. He knew now that he didn’t want to be thrown in jail, but he also knew he hadn’t ever wanted to hurt Miss Kringle like he had. He had meant every last word of what he said, despite his double thinking he didn’t know what love meant.

He pulled out the stretcher slowly, staring down at the body as he spoke. “I want to know why you did this.”

 _When Dr Thompkins walked in the room, how did it feel_?

“I was terrified, she could have discovered the body.”

 _But she didn’t. You got away with it_.

“That’s not the point.”

 _That is ABSOLUTELY the point_! The shout froze Edward. The double was closer now, swirling around him. He didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t ignore that deep down everything that was about to be said were things Edward already knew.

 _You can still feel the rush, can’t you_?

 _Coming so close to getting caught_.

_Knowing what you would have been forced to do if she had discovered the body, discovered what you had done. Standing… standing at the edge of uncertainty and peering into the void._

_Now… tell me, how did it feel_?

It was cataclysmic, there’d been so many opposing thoughts. So many things Edward had ignored for years. So many comments, taunts, insults, the sheer torment that was involved with just being Edward Nygma. No longer, he knew that now. He knew he was destined for something that had made him feel alive, something that gave him sheer purpose, something that inclined him to be more, do more. It’d just been a shame two people had to die in the process.

Edward felt a shift in him, his whole body had been rigid all day, now it was light. He closed his eyes, thinking of the question he’d been asked, only one answer coming to mind: “Beautiful.”

He set to work, laughter reigning from him. He grabbed the autopsy saw from the table.

Well, she would have to be at least a little smaller to fit in the trunk.

* * *

It hadn’t taken much time for Edward to disassemble what was once Miss Kringle, placing her body parts delicately into the trunk and moving it out to his car. He used the little strength he had to place the container into his car’s trunk.

He decided that Miss Kringle would’ve been happy to be buried outside of Gotham, in the desolate forest they had once talked about hiking through. Edward wasn’t entirely sure why he ever entertained that idea, he was clumsy as it was, he really didn’t need to show her an example of that by tripping on a root in front of her.  
  
The drive was long, but at least the sun was still high in the sky by the time he arrived. He still had a couple of hours of daylight by his observation. He pulled off onto a dirt path, travelling as far as his car would allow. Exiting his vehicle, he looked around, deciding whether or not this was the place. He smiled once he was sure no one was around, walking around to his trunk, pulling out the container and a shovel.

He shuffled the trunk into the forest, muttering, ‘sorry, Miss Kringle’ anytime he bumped her against the ground. He wasn’t capable of carrying it the entire way, he’d have to cover his tracks once she was buried. He spent the better part of an hour shovelling into her grave, shallow enough to fit the trunk she was in. He was tempted to dig deeper but figured it would do. He had gained a ridiculous appetite. He took a break from the task at hand, making the trek back to his car to retrieve the picnic basket and wine. He laid it out next to the grave, mentally preparing a toast.

Before he did so, he moved the trunk towards the grave, slowly lowering it into it. Edward felt winded afterwards, breathing heavily as he poured two glasses of wine.

He held up one of the glasses to the grave, “well, I’m afraid this is as proper a burial as circumstances allow. But I thought we could have one last meal together.” Edward removed his cap, placing it over his heart. "I was a broken man, Miss Kringle. Two halves at war with each other. But thanks to you, I am whole. I will not forget you.” Edward paused, “I take you by night, by day take you back. None suffer to have me, but do from my lack, what am I?”

“That some sort of riddle?” Suddenly there was movement, and Edward was shocked to see such a large man standing next to him. How could such a massive man make so little noise?

“You know, you really shouldn’t sneak up on people; that’s not polite,” Edward stated, placing the wine glass back on the picnic blanket.

“Not usually any people out here.” The hunter replied, looking curiously into the grave.

“Can I interest you in a tea sandwich?” Edward asked, hoping it would distract the hunter as he moved to grasp the shovel.

“A what?” The hunter asked crouching down to look into the hole. “What the heck is in there…?”

The hunter had finished his question as Edward swung the shovel, the steel end breaking the hunter’s neck on impact, efficiently ending his life.

_What are you at now? Three?_

Edward sighed, “great, now I’ve got to improvise.” He walked the distance back to his car, hoping he hadn’t left his tools at home. It took him at least forty-five minutes before he returned, small briefcase in hand. He sighed as he placed it next to the hunter.

“Well let’s see,” opening the briefcase, he eyed the bone saw he wanted to use. “If I can’t make the hole bigger, then I’ll make you smaller,” he chuckled, taking a hold of the hunter’s arm. He looked up at his picnic layout briefly, noticing the food was eaten and wine glasses empty.

“Who has eaten my sandwich?” Edward picked up the plate, making note of the blood, as well as the blood on the greenery in front of him. “For a secluded forest, this place sure has a lot of foot traffic.” He exhaled, looking at the grave with Miss Kringle and the hunter. “Looks like it’s gonna get a tad crowded in there. I’ll be back.” He picked up the bone saw, following the trail of blood.

At least whoever’s it was, was injured.

Edward was sure the individual must not have gotten far. They must’ve been in a dire state. Edward walked for nearly an hour, occasionally losing track of the blood and having to retrace his steps. Darkness had overcome the forest, making it difficult for him to see the blood, even with his flashlight.

“Finally,” he came upon a lit trailer, likely used by the hunter he had killed earlier. He hoped the individual inside wasn’t a grieving partner, he didn’t want to deal with guns. There were dogs barking somewhere in the distance, Edward wondered if he'd have to start a graveyard.

He inched towards the trailer, listening for any movement inside. Edward hadn’t exactly been stealthy while moving, he was sure whoever was inside heard him break half a million sticks on approach. He also hadn’t even turned his flashlight off. The door to the trailer swung open, knocking Edward into the ground. His glasses flew off next to him, he scrambled to reach for them.

The blurry figure from the trailer struggled to move his way toward Edward, from what he could tell. Edward fumbled to find his glasses, pressing them into his face. He saw quite clearly now, as Penguin raised his arm to bring down a metal pipe. Except he hadn’t the energy, dropped the pipe, and literally crumpled to his knees.

“Oh, my,” Edward forced out, incredibly confused. He looked at Penguin, his white dress shirt’s right arm was covered in blood, indicative of a grave injury. It explained all the blood Edward had been following. Edward panted, still trying to compose himself from being knocked to the ground. “Mr Penguin?”

Edward wasn’t sure if Penguin had heard him address him. Edward was sure he was close to fainting from his injuries.

“Help me,” Penguin struggled deliriously, “please,” before slumping forwards into a heap on the forest floor.

“Oh dear,” Edward finally sat up, crawling towards where Penguin had fallen. He quickly removed Penguin’s velvet vest, tossing it underneath the trailer. “We need to move,” Edward stated, to no one in particular since the only one there was unconscious. Edward debated how he was going to move Penguin, considering how far he’d already walked, how clumsy he knew he was, and just how strong he was not. He sighed, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose.

There was also the matter of two dead bodies he still needed to bury.

“This is going to be a long night, isn’t it Mr Penguin?” Edward asked, still knowing he’d receive no response. “Up we go.” He somehow lifted the substantially smaller male with sheer ease for dead weight. He cradled him close to his chest, having the right arm tucked into Edward’s side. He debated having him over his shoulder but didn’t want the worse-for-wear arm hanging so wildly.

“No wonder you wanted to eat all my food, you’re as light as a feather.”

Edward swore he heard an annoyed grumble, lifting a smirk to Edward’s lips. He was on a new path, Edward felt it for certain now. He adjusted Penguin against him slightly, earning a meek, mangled cry.

He had killed three people, had resolved to kill a fourth, but fate had an ulterior motive.


	3. The Run and Go

The only recollection Oswald had of the subsequent events that happened in that derelict forest was him nearly being dropped. Coming to, very briefly, must have startled his saviour, who then narrowly avoided a root, but didn’t avoid the next one and somehow maintained his stability after fumbling with Oswald in his arms. After audibly making his irritation known for nearly acquiring new injuries, he went unconscious again.

“Oh dear,” Edward muttered. Penguin had suddenly tensed in Edward’s arms, completely dislodging where he had been nestled. Edward had had him perfectly balanced in his arms, making it much easier to travel the difficult terrain. He heard Penguin grumble incoherently at his clumsiness, before passing out again. At least, that’s what Edward assumed he would grumble about.

Edward continued walking the remaining distance to where he had left the bodies, following the trail of blood Penguin had left, but in reverse. He had to re-route himself a few times, but eventually found the path started to look familiar. His first task at hand was getting Penguin into his car and out of the cold. He bypassed the dead bodies, hoping nothing had gone awry since he’d left. He was tempted to put Penguin in his trunk, since he was drenched in blood and really didn’t want to have to buy a third vehicle. He thought of another idea instead, propping up Penguin to sit with his back against his rear-right tire. Penguin immediately fell sideways into the dirt next to the car.

Edward sighed, “well, that’ll do for the moment.” He turned to make the trek back to the gravesite but lifted a finger into the air as an idea came alight. He removed his thin rain jacket and draped it over Penguin’s frame. He’d been shivering most of the way back to his car, which wasn’t a surprise. “You are going into shock, Mr Penguin, try to relax.”

It wasn’t needing to relax that had anything to do with it, Edward knew that. From a physiological stand point, Penguin was going through the usual symptoms of someone so gravely injured, albeit rather slowly. Edward had deduced it had been a number of hours since Penguin had been shot. He’d lost a substantial amount of blood, yet still had been capable of stealing Edward’s food, and making it to the trailer. The trailer also looked like it had had another occupant – likely the hunter’s partner – who had been bludgeoned to death with the pipe Penguin had almost used on him.

“Adrenaline seems to be a helluva thing,” Edward guessed, removing the glove from his hand to place the back of his hand against Penguin’s forehead. He took note of the bluish tint of Penguin’s lips, and just how cool and clammy he was. “For someone who regularly displays symptoms of high blood pressure, I’m surprised shock could even overwhelm you.”

Edward smirked at his jab, retracting his hand and placing the glove on once more. He focused on his next task at hand, in a more hurried rush now as he worried he’d lose another fascination. He was grateful winter was just around the corner, which would prove beneficial to burying the bodies. He used the bone saw to remove the hunter’s arms, and then followed a similar sequence to how he had cleaved apart Dougherty’s body.

He placed a border of bodies around the trunk that held Miss Kringle, and then stood back to admire his handiwork. It looked as if her body was being protected by the hunter, he supposed. It was his last gift to her, a way to keep her safe even in her walk through purgatory. He began to shovel the dirt into the grave, observing again that he should have made the grave deeper, but he certainly had no time now.

He bid one last goodbye to Miss Kringle, thanking her for being such a complicated riddle for him to solve. His obsessive nature had proved fatal to her, but he had still won. Edward had been able to conquer her constant evasion, proving to her he could be a suitable partner – and he had. He had grown through their relationship.

“I solved you,” Edward stated laconically. He’d have time to query on Miss Kringle later. He moved to gather the remnants of his picnic, stuffing the plates and wine bottle into the basket. He picked up the picnic blanket, folding it over his arm. He was not going to waste more time, he needed to take everything in one trip. He grasped the shovel and case that held the saws in one hand, the picnic basket in the other, and left the site with a grin.

He placed all the relevant items in his trunk, leaving the picnic blanket on his arm. Closing the trunk, he was thankful Penguin had still been uncomfortably nestled in the dirt. It looked like he hadn’t even moved. He really didn’t want to attempt to find Penguin again at two o’clock in the morning. He propped open the right-rear door to his car, looking down at his feathered patient. He wrapped the blanket around where he’d left his coat on the smaller male. Edward placed an arm underneath Penguin’s knees, and another across the back of his shoulders, lifting him carefully into the car.

“ _Don’t_ -“

Edward had started to adjust the blanket and coat to better cover Penguin when he heard him pleading. He knew Penguin was still unconscious, he hadn’t opened in his eyes since their near collapse in the forest. Edward waited to see if Penguin would talk again, before closing the car door.

“ _Don’t let them_ -“

Penguin started thrashing against his covers, coming to as he thrust the coat and blanket off him. He pushed himself forward with as much might as he could, flight or fight response kicking in with ease. Edward had placed a knee onto the back seat, reaching forward to hold Penguin in place by his shoulders.

“Let me go,” Penguin demanded, with such ferment it made Edward question if he should. However, he looked completely delirious, his hypnagogic state evident, so Edward concluded he was no threat.

“Mr Penguin-“ Edward pushed against his left shoulder, trying to indicate to lay down. He didn’t want to put any more pressure on his right.

“You’re trying to…” Penguin shook his head as if trying to produce some wakefulness. “You’re going to-“

“I’m not going to do anything,” Edward soothed, taking an end of the blanket to pull across Penguin’s chest. He was shivering again. “You’re still dreaming.”

Penguin nodded, looking around the car and back at Edward. “Don’t let them kill me.” He mumbled before collapsing back into the seat, allowing Edward to enwrap him in the coat and blanket. Edward knew that Penguin wasn’t weak, but in that moment it was all he could think. He relished in how this was another side to the character he’d kept a history of, someone he knew he didn’t fully comprehend. To him, it meant that Penguin was a kaleidoscope of traits, and Edward was fortuitous enough to be privileged to a side few would ever see.

Once he was certain his subject was as comfortable and secure as he could be, Edward got into the driver’s seat and cautiously reversed out of the forest. Once on the main road, he turned his head to check on Penguin, who was still in the same position. Edward heard a variety of cries as he made the trip home, although he could only make sense of a few of the words being sputtered. The best guess Edward had was that Penguin was debilitated by the thought of death, and he was sure that was something that plagued his mind even before being shot.

+++

“ _Did you really think we could ever be friends with you?”_

_Everything was distorted – the trees, the voices, the sound of rope being wrapped around his wrists – the vibrant colours of the trees weren’t green, the trunks and branches were a dark purple and the leaves were teal. He tried to shake his head, but he was being held in place. The grass was black, the river behind him yellow, the sky was… green? What the hell was going on?_

_He still couldn’t find the body to the voice, every time he turned to face it, they were at his back again. He looked down at his clothes, it looked like he was wearing a school uniform from when he was in middle school. Realization overwhelmed him as he looked around the landscape. Despite the change in colours, it was uncanny: the willow next to the river, where the tire swing used to hang, the dock that led out to the river from his childhood, and the faint outline of the roof of one of his childhood homes._

_He felt dizzy, was he turning around in circles, or was it the dream? This all had to be a dream, right? When everything settled, he tried to focus, things were the colour they should be, and that worried him even more. The voice picked up again, this time when he turned around, he was faced with three eleven-year-old kids._

_“Well? Gee, you’re a stupid one, aren’t you?” One of the kids mocked, reaching out to jab a finger into his chest._

_“W-what do you mean?” He forced out as a reply. “Where are we?”_

_The kids looked between each other, mildly confused._

_“We were talking about how none of us ever wanted to be your friends.”_

_He remembered now, how they asked him if he wanted to ‘hang out’, how they practically forced an invitation into his home, how surprised his mother was at the sight of three other prepubescent boys entering her incredibly small home. She only had enough to feed her own son, but they had made a point of rummaging through her cabinets anyway. They were obnoxiously loud in the house, running in circles which drove his mother nuts. He’d always been quiet and polite, it’s how he was raised. Finally, she told them they should all go down to the river, just to get some peace and quiet._

_One of the boys held out a wooden wind-up Penguin, turning the key to the toy, before placing it on the ground as they all watched it move with a Penguin-like gait, in circles. The same boy who had done so looked at him with absolute disgust in his eyes, before stomping the toy with such ferocity, earning a quiet cry from the boy they were tormenting._

_“Are you going to cry?” One of the boys asked, laughing as he watched his friend destroy the toy. “You’re even uglier when you cry. When was the last time? Yesterday after gym class, right? When Tyler whipped the dodgeball at your face, that was great.” He high-fived the third child in the memory. “Oswald, you are such a baby, you know that?”_

_Oswald collapsed to his knees, watching the boy continue to pummel the toy on the ground. He remembered how his mother had used what little money they had to buy him the things he needed to build it, even going out of her way to travel to a parts store across town. He engineered the toy from an old book he’d found in his mother’s priceless collection. He’d taken his time to sculpt and shape the wood, painstakingly painted it for it to be destroyed within hours of giving it to the unappreciative recipient._

_“Did you think this would make him friends with you?” One of the other boys taunted._

_Oswald felt a hand pull him to his feet, as the third boy looked at him scrutinizingly from above. “Time for the main course.” He pulled Oswald forcefully towards the water, as Oswald tried to reach out to the toy that was left in a heap behind them. The four of them walked the length of the dock, Oswald trying to pry himself out of their grip, but knew he was outnumbered. His eyes went wide as they continued until they were at the end of the pier._

_“W-wait,” Oswald tried, raising his tied wrists towards them. “Surely… there must be- I-I can’t be out here- I can’t swim.”_

_The three looked between themselves. “We know. That’s the point.”_

_One of them – Oswald couldn’t concentrate which – stepped towards him, raising an arm to wrap his hand into Oswald’s dress shirt. “Have a nice swim, loser.” He pushed him off the dock with such ease, Oswald had thought it might’ve been a dream, but the frigid river water reached him, and he tried desperately to swim. He could hear his mother screaming in the distance, but a small part had hoped this would be it._

_He heard something else from within the water, but couldn’t make sense of it. He was drowning, after all. It didn’t make sense that he could hear a voice, desperately trying to pull him out of his reverie._

+++

“ _You can’t_ -“ Edward heard Penguin say loudly at one point, he looked in the rearview mirror to see if he’d woken up, but he was still firmly laid out against the back seat.

“We’re nearly there, Mr Penguin,” Edward said reassuringly, even if he knew it wouldn’t be heard. “It’s going to be all right.”

There were various other shouts for the next several minutes until it seemed he calmed down and was quiet the remainder of the way. The quiet was more worrisome than Penguin’s nightmares.

Edward parked his car behind his apartment, enjoying that it was incredibly quiet for Gotham at that moment. He hadn’t checked his phone in quite some time. He had left a message with Lee that he was too ill to go to work the next day, and had powered it off since then. He nestled Penguin against him as he made his way into the apartment, pressing the ‘ _up_ ’ arrow to the elevator. He looked around every so often, worried that someone would walk in and find him, knowing Penguin was a wanted man.

He’d resolve to empty his car of everything else the next chance he could. He slid the door to his apartment with difficulty and locked it behind him. He looked at his apartment, still in disarray from the previous nights’ events. He sighed, Penguin was presently more important than Edward’s need for order. He fretted about changing the bedsheets before placing Penguin in them but decided against it when he listened to how shallow Penguin’s breaths were.

Edward brought the smaller male to the bathroom, laying him next to the bathtub. He rummaged through his cupboard, pulling out the kit he’d… _acquired_ from the GCPD at one point or another. Reminded of various first aid manuals he read, he needed to ensure Penguin knew what he was doing every step of the way.

“I know it makes more sense for me to bring you to the hospital, Mr Penguin,” Edward started reaching out to begin unbuttoning Penguin’s bloodied dress shirt. He’d have to dispose of the clothing properly later. “I need to remove your clothes to treat your wound. They’re not doing you any favours soaked, and they smell vile anyway.”

He discarded the shirt to the side, picked out a pair of nylon gloves from the container to wear, and removed the box of antiseptic wipes from the kit. Penguin’s head lolled back against the edge of the tub, Edward worried he’d start to wake up. He hadn’t retrieved any sedatives yet… he’d have to make a trip across the road.

“These are going to be uncomfortable,” Edward stated, placing one of the wipes at the top of Penguin’s shoulder. “I need to see where the entry wound is, and I’m hoping there’s an exit.” Edward hadn’t manoeuvred to see the back of Penguin’s arm yet. He moved the wipe at a downward angle on his arm, waiting for a cry or twitch to come out of Penguin, yet nothing. This worried Edward a great deal, _were his efforts wasted, was he too late_? He continued to wipe the blood away from the other man’s arm, cleaning the wound diligently. He braced himself for some sort of movement when he turned Penguin’s arm carefully, cleaning the backside of it, where… _yes, there was an exit wound_. Still, no movement from Penguin.

Edward was content the gushing blood had mostly stopped, meaning he didn’t have to worry about internal bleeding. An exit wound also meant he didn’t need to worry about finding a bullet, they were notoriously hard to find anyway.

“I read once that a patient had gone into a hospital with an upper chest wound, when they went to find the bullet, it wasn’t in the patient’s back or even the other side of their chest. It had made its way down into the right butt cheek! Pushing against the skin!” Edward laughed, before realizing he was still entertaining an unconscious man.

He pulled out the betadine, needle driver, a syringe, and the suture material from the kit. Having noticed that there were still bits of dirt in Penguin’s wound, he went to grab a beaker from the kitchen. He filled it with a small amount of water and placed several drops of betadine into the cup, placing it on the bathroom sink. Once he was appeased with the diluted solution, he filled the irrigating syringe from the beaker. He placed it on the front side of Penguin’s wound, properly cleaning it.

Edward stretched his neck from side to side after finishing, placing the syringe next to the beaker on the sink.

“This is as sterile as we can possibly be, Mr Penguin,” Edward thought maybe he was reassuring himself more. “We can’t risk you getting an infection.”

Edward observed the wound, determining the best way to close it. He’d have to do both sides. He lifted the curved needle from the pile of items, threading it. He started at the centre of the wound on the front of Penguin’s arm, and worked outwards, creating a series of knots. He left an eight of an inch between each stitch, as he had learned. He admired the work on the front briefly, before moving to the back of Penguin’s arm and mirroring the same method.

He pulled out the various bandages from the container, preparing to tourniquet the wound, he wrapped Penguin’s arm first, before also wrapping the bandage across Penguin’s chest to keep the arm in place. Edward knew the importance of aftercare, his goal was to ensure there were no infections. This meant regularly changing the bandages, possibly twice a day, and check for any signs of infection. He also needed to ensure Penguin slept. It was essential to the healing process. The more Penguin woke in distress or continued to have nightmares – the harder it would be to control his heart rate, blood pressure, or any subsequent fevers. Edward knew he’d done a well enough job on the wound, but the next couple of days would be imperative in the healing process.

He placed all the items from his first aid kit delicately back to where they’d been, noting he’d need to acquire completely sterilized items. After placing it back into his cabinet, Edward walked the short distance to his steel drawers, pulling out a set of pyjamas he already knew were barely going to fit his guest. It wasn’t unusual for Edward to undress someone, he’d seen countless bodies in the GCPD, many of which he’d undress while looking for clues of their deaths.

It was always a little different with living people though. He thought of Miss Kringle and _that_ evening, but that was also different than this current scenario. Determined to be as careful as possible, he removed Penguin’s oxfords and then worked on removing his trousers. He’d decided not to remove Penguin’s briefs, finding the purple cotton material was dry.

“Sorry,” Edward apologized on deaf ears. He respected boundaries, and he felt as if he had crossed one by undressing the ‘King of Gotham’ without his consent. “I did save you though, you’d probably forgive me if you saw it that way,” he surmised, pulling his oversized purple-plaid pyjama pants up the small frame, and then wrapping the shirt around Penguin, lacing each arm through, and buttoning it. Once finished, he had to refrain from laughing outwardly, the shirt barely stayed on Penguin’s small shoulders.

For someone so powerful, Penguin was so small without the suits, without the attitude, and in a comatose state. The thought brought a smugness to Edward’s smile, as he picked up Penguin for possibly the tenth time that evening, resting him against the opposite side of his bed to where he had laid Miss Kringle. He pulled the blankets up to Penguin’s chest, tucking him in.

He found himself hoping he’d never be in a situation like this, having a stranger – no, Edward was an acquaintance at the least – tending to him. He seldom enjoyed being touched, that the idea of someone undressing him or mending him while he was unconscious was disconcerting.

He shook his head lightly, knowing he still needed to get to the pharmacy before day broke. He also took this as an opportunity to dispose of Penguin's irreparable clothes.

Edward had been breaking into the pharmacy across his house for quite some time, it had been a hobby of his – to satisfy a burning chemical itch. He didn’t have the means to afford to buy the concoctions for his own experiments, and he was sure the GCPD would pick up on the items missing. He also knew that the pharmacist was corrupt, and regularly peddled drugs through his ‘legitimate’ business. So, Edward saw it as advantageous that the police never stayed long when the alarm went off. The pharmacist would give a different excuse every time – rats, kids, homeless, etc.

He had the shelves memorized, even as the alarm was booming above him. Edward pandered over Fentanyl, Propofol, or Benzodiazepines, deciding to take all three, the latter most out of his own curiosity. He sauntered around the pharmacy, looking at his watch briefly and noting he still had four minutes until anyone showed up. He took his time to practically dance down one of the aisles, pulling fresh ingredients for his first aid kit. He stuffed a pocket full of gauze and bandages. He was going to be going through them like candy.

He heard sirens in the distance, checked his watch and was amused to find the police’s response time was still consistent. He held the dark green coloured bandana firmly against his nose, passing the camera unrecognizably to the back door of the store.

“Again?” He heard one of the officers say as Edward passed undetected across the street to his apartment. He was thankful he only knew a handle of officers that actually cared about situational awareness.

Edward hummed Harry Nilsson’s _Trust in Me_ against his lips as he entered his apartment, fondling the tiny bottles in his pocket. He moved to the small glass cabinet he used to the store acquired medications. He took out several syringes with accompanying needles, preparing three of them with a cocktail of Fentanyl and Propofol. He’d recently read a study that showed that a Fentanyl-Propofol mixture had been more effective with preventing the injection pain from Propofol, and this was a great time to see if there was any truth to it.

Edward placed the remaining needles next to the cabinet on a medical surgical tray. He flicked a switch on the cabinet’s side, illuminating its contents and causing a gear to turn. He heard the faint sound of the motor at its back. He opened the glass door, reaching a hand inside and was pleased to find it was already cool. He placed two of the syringes he had filled delicately onto the bottom shelf. He lifted the third one, flicking the tip of the needle with his nail and moved towards his bed.

Penguin was still nestled in the sheets, but not nearly as soundlessly. He’d been talking again in his sleep about _water_ and _broken gifts_ , Edward was certain he’d wake up in a fuss at some point. He took a seat at the edge of the bed, waiting, prepared.

Edward’s eyelids felt heavy. His whole body rocked with a sudden rush of exhaustion as the minutes passed. After all, he hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours. He’d been so preoccupied, his body filtered through the last two days with sheer _will_ to complete so many tasks at hand, and this was its first true moment of rest. He rubbed the edge of his eyes with his free hand, needing to at least stay awake until Penguin woke up.

He felt the bed sheets shift frantically, heard a slew of groans, and Edward was rekindled with energy. He moved off the bed, looming over Penguin as he stirred. Edward waited as blue eyes started to focus.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Edward stated, holding the prepared concoction behind his back.

Penguin panted, grasping at the sheets to push them away. His eyes darted around the room, breathing heavy. “Where am I?”

Edward pursed his lips, he couldn’t have all his work wasted on Penguin ripping the bandages off or tearing his stitches. He pulled the needle from behind his back. “Rapid movement and elevated heart rate are counterproductive to the healing process.”

Penguin focused on the needle coming towards him, fear making his heart beat erratically against his chest. “No! No! Don’t ki-“ he tried, as Edward pressed a hand to Penguin’s forehead, forcing it to its side, exposing his neck.

Oswald felt the light prick against his neck, but the pain he felt everywhere else had been more cumbersome. He felt a sudden warm rush envelope his body as the mix took him over, instantly finding relief of all his pain. He vaguely heard the individual apologizing above him, then faintly heard: “Rest up, my feathered friend. We have a big night ahead of us,” before passing out again.

Edward placed the used needle on the trolley he had pulled to the end of the bed, checking over Penguin’s bandages decisively finding no blood. He was tempted to change them but found he felt far too tired. He moved to the couch, practically tumbling onto the rightmost cushion. He placed the weight of his head against his palm, elbow placed on the couch’s arm. All the events of the last two days swam in front of him, as sleep threatened to overcome him. It was hardly a comfortable position.

He wouldn’t dare sleep in his bed, at that moment for two reasons: one – Penguin waking up and finding the energy to strangle him in his sleep, and two – that it was the last place he’d seen Miss Kringle in her entirety. It wasn’t the guilt that made him feel he couldn’t sleep in his own bed again, it was the finished nature of all of it. Edward had killed her in this same apartment, even if he still fought his mind to recognize it as an accident.

He had solved the riddle that was Miss Kringle, had felt the touch of a woman he never thought he would, and had killed her. It had opened a perspective to Miss Kringle Edward hadn’t known was possible – of what his feelings truly represented. He thought of how the darkness in him had pointed out her aesthetic appeal, it was indeed the first thing that had pulled Edward towards her. There was also her role in the GCPD, how she worked so diligently, no questions asked, and had an outstanding memory.

However, there was the matter of her personality. Miss Kringle only saw Edward once he had saved her life. Everything leading up to that point had been pity. He had caught glances from her, ones he still didn’t understand, but the pity had never left until that moment. Miss Kringle had a somewhat introverted personality, except when she was surrounded by officers. The attention never seemed unwanted, the affirmation gained must have fuelled her own confidence. Edward knew she was quick-witted, albeit not in an intellectual manner, just her aggressive tongue. She knew how to stand her ground when confronted, something Edward was still learning.

He had pieced together she held a need for intimacy and connection, she could never stay out of a relationship for long and strived to have as much social interaction as she could. She was also not aloof in her feelings, trusting in Lee, despite only knowing her a brief time. Edward still hadn’t thought it was appropriate to talk to Lee as she had, even though he was grateful for Lee’s friendship. Miss Kringle had been a mystery for Edward for such a long time, now she was a wide-open book, and his fascination with her had completely relented. There were still many things surrounding his feelings for Miss Kringle that didn’t make sense to him, but he didn’t feel the need to concern himself.

It also helped that she was dead.

He had hoped this line of thoughts would keep him awake until the next time Penguin woke up, but he felt sleep drag him heavily against the couch, pushing him into a dreamless state. Edward stirred after an hour and a half of sleep, pleased that getting through at least one R.E.M. cycle had helped him feel rejuvenated. The kink in his neck was back with a vengeance, as he massaged over it with his thumb. He looked over his house guest, finding that Penguin was still underneath the covers, head propped up on two pillows.

Edward went over to the grab a tall glass from his cupboard, filling it with water and placing a streaked straw into it. The blue and white straw added a stark contrast to the dark colours in the room, almost a lightness. He placed it on a metal carrying tray, turning around, and leaning his back against the sink. He continued to observe his patient, who looked much more peaceful while medicated.

He wasn’t entirely sure how the next encounter would go.

Penguin had been dreaming of death. It was the first thing he thought when he came to, and it was still plaguing his nightmares. Edward didn’t know how to handle it. He was tempted to look into adding Benzodiazepines to his treatment plan with Penguin, but worried about the consequences. It wasn’t very good after-care if Edward was going to sedate him every time he came to.

He grabbed the serving tray from the counter, walking towards Penguin when he noticed him shifting in the sheets again. Edward thought he would’ve stayed sedated a whole lot longer than he had, which mystified Edward. He debated again with himself how to handle Penguin, he hadn’t really planned anything out. He knew he’d be combative, possibly threatening, but Edward recalled he was still weak and felt at ease.

Oswald came to at a start once he’d recalled he was in a bed that was definitely not his own, and the tall frame of an individual he did not know thrusting a serving tray towards him. He looked down at the glass of _whatever it was_ , specifically inspecting the straw before scanning the room, and then the recollection came back to him. The stranger had a familiarity with him he couldn’t immediately recall, but he did know he’d been drugged some hours prior against his will.

Oswald pressed himself further to the bed frame in an attempt to move as far away as he could, gasping lightly at the combined pain of his arm and leg. “You drugged me.”

“That was for your own benefit, Mr Penguin,” the taller male indicated, pushing the tray towards him. Oswald didn’t see what benefit there was in keeping him in a drug-induced coma, he would’ve dealt with the pain just fine consciously. “You have extensive injuries.”

Oswald began wracking his mind for clues as to why this individual seemed familiar, he rested on a memory that came to him while he’d visited the GCPD. “I know you.”

“Ed,” he replied, smiling, when that didn’t help Oswald’s oblivious gaze, he added, “Nygma. We met once before, at the GCPD.”

“You’re not a cop,” Oswald had fragments to go by, still not entirely sure of who he was.

Edward laughed at the idea, him a cop? What a day that would be. “Oh, no, no, no. No, I’m in forensics.”

Oswald lost all interest, remembering a riddle and a comment about emperor penguins and he knew exactly who was now responsible for taking care of him. He looked down at his attire, displeased with the oversized plaid.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Oswald heard it, but he ignored it. He needed to leave. This fellow was a GCPD employee. The GCPD had a warrant out for his arrest. He was shot while trying to kill Galavan. His mother was still dead. How long had he been sleeping while Galavan was still out there?

“Where are my clothes?” Oswald asked, still ignoring the previous question.

“Oh, I threw them away.” A look of disgust passed Edward’s features. “They smelled.”

No matter, he’d have to reach out to Gabe to bring him new clothes from a safe house GCPD hadn’t managed to infiltrate. Oswald pushed out from underneath the bedsheets, immediately meeting resistance from… Ed? Yes, Ed.

“Oh, no. Oh, my,” Ed placed the tray on the dresser next to the bed, pressed a hand in front of him, trying to keep Oswald from getting out of bed. “Uh, I’m afraid, sir, that you can’t leave.”

“You sedate me again, and I swear, I will…” Oswald continued to thrash, Ed had a hand grasping his left forearm in place, while his right was held in front of Oswald to indicate ‘ _stop_ ’.

“Sir!” Edward said loudly, realizing Penguin didn’t know the severity of anything that was going on. Perhaps he should’ve just sedated him when he had the chance, but he wanted to ensure brain functionality hadn’t been impeded. He had worried about amnesia – although it was why he hadn’t chosen Morphine from the pharmacy. “You are a wanted man. You can try and run, but with your condition, you’ll get about three blocks. I’m afraid you’re stuck here until you recover.”

Oswald had felt the pain just from making those small movements, knowing now he would need to take the advised time. It didn’t need to be here, he could just have someone pick him up, why did he have to stay here? In this Godforsaken small apartment with nothing of his own, no immediate weapons at his disposal, at the complete mercy of a GCPD scientist. What fresh hell was this? He panted softly, moving back against the bed, pushing Ed away from him, and wincing as his hand went to touch his right arm. Ed grabbed the tray, pushing that damn glass of God-knows-what towards him.

“Now, drink up. It’s just water,” Ed explained when he noticed Oswald was still staring at it with suspicion. “Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure.”

Edward gave up when Penguin shoved the tray away from him. He placed it on the dining table, turning back to look at him. He was losing his focus on how to bring some level of trust to the present arrangement, not immediately understanding all the hesitation from his guest.

“What do you want from me?” Penguin asked as Edward pondered briefly how to answer.

“Remember I had mentioned fate?” Edward chuckled, “recently, I’ve been going through a sort of change.” He looked over at Penguin, waiting for a prompt to continue, but he found him to look disinterested. “’ _What kind of change_?’ you ask.” Edward stated instead since he hadn’t.

“I didn’t-“ Oswald interrupted. He really didn’t care, he was still trying to find any tactical advantage he could in the apartment, deducing there would at least be sharp kitchenware just next to where Ed stood.

“I’ve started murdering people.” Ed proceeded to laugh. “Wow, that is thrilling to say out loud.”

“How many people?”

“Three in total.”

Oswald scoffed and then chuckled, he’d found himself momentarily intrigued, but over such a small amount… had lost interest again. He was beginning to assume perhaps he’d be number four.

“Two of them I didn’t really care for.” Edward continued, “but one was my girlfriend, Miss Kringle. She was the love of my life.”

Oswald had to take a breath, and it _hurt,_ but ensured the apartment’s other occupant couldn’t tell. “If you’re planning on killing me, could you get on with it? At this point, it would come as a welcome relief.” He’d meant it, in a way. He did still owe Galavan a crude death – maybe even his sister too. He saw this fellow killing him going one of two ways – either he would gain the upper hand and kill Ed himself, or die at his hand. He was certain the former would be the likely outcome. He always did well even in agony.

“Oh, heavens,” Edward began a mantra of ‘no’s’ as he moved to sit on the bed, in front of Penguin. He was getting incredibly lax with his proximity. “I have no ill intentions toward you.”

“Then what are your _intentions_?” Oswald bit back the agonizing cry he wanted to emit from a sudden pain in his arm, forcing the aggression through his question instead.

“I need advice, Mr Penguin. These murders… changed me.” Ed started. Oswald furrowed his brow, taking in Ed’s stature and feeling interest return. “And like the butterfly, I’ve come to realize that I cannot be a caterpillar once again. And you’re one of the city’s most notorious killers, I brought you here… in part, because I was hoping you could guide me on this new path.”

Oswald looked at him doubtingly, shaking his head slightly before seizing Ed up again, and then looking down at the sheets. He laughed lightly. Ed wanted him to be his mentor? How flattering. This wasn’t an opportune time for Oswald to take up recreational activities with budding murderers. He was in such disbelief, “listen… friend.”

“Ed,” the lanky male corrected.

“Whatever…” Oswald was surprised to find he wasn’t blocked from getting out of bed this time, pushing towards the window opposite from them. His gait was ever-prominent, more so now from the side effects of the sedative. He grasped the support beam next to the window, emphasizing a need to keep himself steady. “My empire is in ruins. I’m a wanted man with no friends. And my mother… the one person I swore to protect is dead because of my _weakness_.” Oswald inhaled sharply, raw emotion spilling out with his tone. “Believe me when I tell you that this path you’re on leads to nothing but destruction and pain.”

Edward stood a respectable distance away, hands in the pockets of his trousers as he listened intently to what Penguin had to say. He flinched as Penguin smacked his right hand with his bad arm against the beam, immediately concerned for the pain he should’ve felt. Yet, as he turned and met Edward’s gaze, did not look like he’d felt anything at all.

“So… wanted or not…” Penguin pointed determinedly towards the door. “I’m leaving.”

Penguin made it three steps before collapsing to the wooden floor, startling Edward. He _had_ warned him that he still needed to recover. “Oh, my.”

He debated just leaving him there, as punishment for not listening to him earlier, but knew that was inhumane. He scooped up the heap of a man, placing him delicately again underneath his covers. He was sure Penguin must have been in pain, just seemed experienced in masking it. It was another line in Edward’s mental compendium of Penguin’s traits.

Edward felt unsure about how to broach anything Penguin had said. Penguin thought himself as having no friends, something Edward also felt. He thought himself weak because of needing to protect his mother, Edward… thought himself weak for… No, he didn’t think himself weak for thinking he loved Miss Kringle. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault she was dead. He thought she had been a hindrance in his progression into… _whatever he was now_. However, had she not been in the picture at all, he might not have had this awakening.

“You were a dangerous thing,” Edward confirmed of his thoughts towards Miss Kringle. “You were the prologue to my story, Miss Kringle. Thank you for your efforts.”

Perhaps he could bridge the gap to Penguin by way of comparing Edward’s loss of Miss Kringle to that of him losing his mother. It was (at the moment) the only thing he could tie to him on an emotional level. He shook his head from side to side. Edward sat on the end of the bed again, not nearly as close to Penguin as he had been earlier. He heard more mumbling from the smaller’s sleeping form, one coherent name coming out repeatedly. He’d heard it overnight too before Penguin had moved on to nightmarish cries about water.

“ _Theo Galavan_ ,” Edward placed a finger to his lips.

When Barnes had asked Edward to create a copy of the ‘real’ file he had on Penguin, Edward took the opportunity to bring a copy of it home. Including all the aspects of anyone who’d come in contact with Penguin. This included the name of all the associates of Fish Mooney, Butch Gilzean, Victor Zsasz, Carmine Falcone, Salvatore Maroni, and now Theo Galavan. The file had grown rather large. Edward pulled it from the bottom most drawer next to the bed, laying it out on his lap as he returned to the edge of the bed. He scanned the list underneath Theo Galavan’s name, pleased to find a Mr Leonard at the top of the list who conveniently lived just a block away. He hid the file back in its drawer, before turning back to observe his patient.

Based on every medicine text he’d ever read, he knew even if Penguin wasn’t outwardly displaying it, he was pained. Before leaving the apartment he also needed to ensure the occupant wouldn’t disappear, so, he decided to pull another needle from the small fridge. The bed shifted underneath him as Edward tried to gain a good angle to plunge the needle into Penguin’s neck. He reached a hand to Penguin’s shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t wake him. He pulled him onto his back. He waited a moment to ensure he hadn’t woken him up before tilting the smaller male’s chin upwards, holding the needle a few inches from him.

Edward was startled to find a hand shot forward, grasping the wrist he’d been holding the syringe with.

“Didn’t I just warn you against sedating me?” Penguin half grumbled, some of the strength already gone from holding Edward’s wrist.

“It’ll dull the pain.”

“I’m not in pain,” Penguin countered. He hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“It’ll help you sleep, I have to go run some errands.”

“So, you are going to sedate me to ensure my captivity?” Penguin peaked an eye open, gauging Edward’s reaction.

“Mr Penguin, it’s for your own good.”

Edward heard him mutter asinine comments of a stranger not knowing what was good for him, before submitting to having the injection. Edward waited until Penguin’s breaths grew less strenuous, before heading out on his mission to corral a new test subject.

There was an illicit excitement that Edward felt towards the evening’s next events.

+++

“ _Mother, we don’t have to move-“_

_“My sweet boy, we must.”_

_Oswald had been pleading with his mother for what seemed like hours. She had rescued him from the lake, luckily he suffered no permanent damage, just a bruise to his young ego. He’d only been in there a handful of seconds before she pulled him from the lake, but she had been wrecked with concern. She had ensured he was in a new set of clothes, wrapped in the biggest blanket they owned. He was practically cocooned._

_“These boys deserve bad things Oswald, bad things,” his mother hadn’t even changed out of her own wet clothes, grabbing various items and throwing them into boxes._

_“We don’t have to move right_ now _though-“_

_“I have plans for us, a home deeper in the city, a school that will know my boy’s smarts,” she wasn’t listening to a word he said, her accent thick as she continued. “A new job too, Oswald. You’ll see.”_

_She paused in the middle of stuffing various large antiquities into the box, walking towards her son. She caressed his cheek, “Oswald, no one deserves your love unless they love you as I do. I would do anything for you.” She grasped the edge of the wet scarf she’d been wearing, tossing it over her shoulder in added enthusiasm, “we will be big in Gotham!”_

_Eleven-year-old Oswald had no clue what she was even talking about, but her words were on repeat in his head as he watched his mother suddenly lurch forward, falling to the floor. He rushed towards her but found himself immobile._

_The glint of the knife protruding from his mother’s back was all he needed to ascertain what had happened. He felt tears fall down his face, but he still couldn’t move, helpless as his mother bled out in front of him, again._

+++

Oswald had heard a chair being scrapped against the wooden floor, and was growing mildly annoyed at the rude awakenings. He heard incoherent mumbling from the end of the bed, and finally decided to rouse himself. He was met with a tied up gentleman in a chair, garbage bag covering his head, and Oswald assumed he was gagged. How long had he been sleeping? Ed appeared from behind him, all smiles at whatever accomplishment this was.

“Ta-da!” Ed laughed.

“Who is that?” Oswald asked.

“This is Mr Leonard,” Oswald indicated with a look he’d need more information to go on than that. “You were talking in your sleep last night and today about Galavan killing your mother.”

“I was?” Oswald wanted to kick himself.

“Yes, Mr Leonard,” Edward plopped his hands down on the top of Mr Leonard’s head, earning a whimper, “works for Galavan. Well, before he was arrested of course.” Edward had taken the time to read up on missed moments of the last twenty-four hours while he’d been out retrieving Penguin’s gift.

“Arrested?” Oswald leaned forward at the news.

“Detective Gordon arrested Galavan for kidnapping Mayor James!” Edward confirmed excitedly, not realizing this was not happy news for Penguin. “He’s in Blackgate!” He laughed, stopping only when he could tell Penguin was not similarly amused.

“Huh,” Penguin breathed out, looking down at the sheets. This changed things.

“Oh, I thought you’d be pleased.” Edward couldn’t read the flicker of emotion that passed through Penguin while he waited for him to answer.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Why is he here?”

“He was a gift for you.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do with a Leonard?”

“Kill him,” Edward stated easily, plopping his hands down again on Mr. Leonard’s head, earning more muffled grunting. “I thought it might be nice to get some retribution for your mother’s death.” He moved towards Penguin, removing a chrome switchblade from his back pocket, flicking it open. “That it might cheer you up a little.” Edward held it out for him to take. “No?”

Penguin took the blade, getting out from underneath the covers and walking towards Mr Leonard. Edward was completely stricken with delight, entwining his fingers, and bringing his knuckles to his chin while he observed Penguin. Edward was sure this would bring up his spirits, and this would satisfy a need to watch how Penguin worked.

This wasn’t what Oswald wanted. He didn’t want an associate, he wanted Theo Galavan. He wanted to drown him in his own blood. He wanted to make him beg for death. He wanted his sister to suffer like he had over his mother. Wanted Tabitha to know Theo was tortured before being slaughtered by Oswald. That opportunity had been ripped from him, and his consolation prize was a Leonard. He transferred the knife to his left hand. He rotated the knife on the edge of his fingers, letting it go, and watching it get caught in the wooden floor.

“I’m done. I need some rest.” Oswald turned to meet Ed’s eager gaze. “And then I’m leaving Gotham forever.”

Edward watched, crestfallen, as Penguin climbed underneath the covers, pulling them high against his frame. He manoeuvred around Mr Leonard’s chair, grasping the top of it. “I really thought he would like you. What to do now?” Mr Leonard let out a muffled grunt as Edward started to pull the chair towards the cupboard.

The scraping against the hardwood floor made Edward feel nauseated, he paused for a moment thinking he’d heard something from the bed. _Humming_. Edward grinned, he recognized the tune. He decided on a different tactic as he continued to pull Mr Leonard, closing the door once he was secure.

He couldn’t have Penguin leaving Gotham, no matter how he felt. He was essential to Edward’s progression, and he was an important element to the city’s thirst for chaos. Edward could make him see that. He pulled a record from his collection, his grin still intact.

+++

“ _Why did you not save me, Oswald?”_

_All there were were voices, everything else was black._

_“Your son is a cold-blooded psychopath.”_

_He could hear sobs, could feel blood dripping from his hands, but still could see nothing._

_“…washing the blood from his hands?”_

_Oswald felt someone press the wooden handle of a blade into his palm, forcing him to focus, he reached forward but met nothing._

_“When did you realize that you had given birth to a monster?”_

_“Oswald? What is wrong? You look so sad.”_

_Please forgive me. I’m so sorry._

_He opened his mouth to speak those words, but there was no reverb. It felt like the darkness was tearing through him. He felt an agonizing pain in his arm, instinctively reaching out and clawing at his suit jacket to try to find the source. The pain then travelled to his knee, forcing him to collapse. He’d never felt anything like it before, he felt paralyzed._

_“You were always such a good boy.”_

_“I think some people have different standards for what classifies someone as good.”_

_Oswald saw the owner of the voice this time, if only for a flash. Galavan lifted the muzzle of a Colt M1911, aiming it down at Oswald’s head._

_You should’ve killed me when you had the chance._

_He was still enveloped in darkness, but Oswald attempted to lunge from his kneeling position. He couldn’t move. He heard laughter, so much laughter. He then felt water rush around him, filling whatever void he was in. It was at his chin before he heard faint singing, pulling him out of the water…_

+++

Oswald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew he’d been humming it earlier, but having it come to life now…

‘ _The fire has gone out,  
Wet from snow above_,’

There was Ed, singing along, practiced hands moving across the electric piano.  
  
“ _But nothing will warm me more,_  
_That my mother’s love_ ,  
_I light another candle,_  
_To dry the tears from my face…”_

In another time, Oswald might have found appreciation for the choice in music, even found Ed’s voice soothing, but at that moment he could only imagine it was being used against him.

“Why are you playing this song?” Oswald spoke after watching for a little longer than necessary.

Ed looked over his shoulder at him, somewhat startled. “I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and last a lifetime. What am I?”

“A memory.” Ed looked far too pleased with Oswald answering it so quickly. “So what?”

“You were humming this under your covers, I figured it has meaning for you.”

Oswald chuckled softly, and then sniffled. Perhaps it wasn’t as manipulative as he thought, but it still felt a knife had been plunged into his chest listening to the song.

“Every night when I was young, my mother would sing that song to me when I was going to bed.” Ed moved towards the bed again, completely attentive to him, sitting again far too close once he had reached him. “And every time, she would tell me…” The music was fading now, while he continued to reminisce. “ _Oswald, don’t listen to the other children. You are handsome and clever, and some day, you will be a great man_.” It earned a chuckle from both of them, Oswald found comfort in continuing to speak. “She said that every time.” He sniffled, the terrible notion of grief taking over again. “That’s all I have left now. Memories. And they’re like daggers in my heart.”

“Not forever,” Ed offered. He reached over to grab a pair of glasses from the nightstand. Oswald had figured the second pair were his. Ed held them up, “these were Miss Kringle’s. It’s all I have left to remember her by. But, when I look at these, I don’t feel sadness anymore.” Ed had missed the beat in Oswald’s shift to quick annoyance. Was he really making a comparison of his dead girlfriend – whom he killed – to Oswald’s gruesomely murdered mother? “I feel gratitude, and do you know why?”

“No, and I don’t care. This little visit is over.” Oswald got out of the bed, he hadn’t really considered where he was going to go, but he knew he needed to leave. “I will simply bid you _adieu_.”

A thought crossed Edward’s mind as Penguin shuffled out of the bed. He rose to his feet, meeting him at the edge. He observed a slight wince as Penguin moved.

“Mr Penguin,” Edward started, halting him from leaving. “For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness-“

“Move aside, Ed!” Oswald spat bitterly, _he didn’t care_. He glanced towards his right, noticing the blade he’d dropped into the floor had been moved to the table next to him.

“We are better off unencumbered.”

Oswald faltered, his eyes flashing wildly, shakily trying to find composure. “What did you say?”

“You said it yourself. Your mother is dead because of your weakness.” Edward knew it was pulling a rise out of him, but he needed Penguin to face the grief head-on. He had made a mistake with his comparison earlier, he saw that now. “But what you need to realize is that your weakness was _her_.”

Ed didn’t seem shocked when Oswald grabbed the blade with his right hand, whipping around to press it to Ed’s neck while holding him in place by his collar.

It was all calculated, Edward knew this. He was treading unchartered waters. He hadn’t been certain at first how to help Penguin, but this was where his attempts led him. Penguin was not going to kill him, so long as he approached the subject properly. He wanted him to be angry – seven stages of grief and all.

“My mother was a saint!” Oswald was furious, he felt like cement was being poured down his throat. He invaded Ed’s space, pressing the blade into the middle of his neck. “The only person who truly cared about me, and now she’s gone! And I have nothing left!”

“A man with nothing that he loves… is a man who cannot be bargained.” Edward argued. Penguin hadn’t relaxed his grip, the knife against his throat causing Edward’s to speak with more difficulty. “A man that _cannot_ be betrayed. A man who answers to no one… but himself. And _that_ is the man that I see before me. A free man.”

Edward felt the warmth of Penguin’s heavy breathing against his face. The smaller male seemed mildly entranced by Edward’s guidance until finally, he looked down at the knife resting on Edward’s neck. They seemed suspended, Penguin was wordless. His grip finally loosened on the knife, shakily holding it out in front of him. The inclination was there for Edward to reach out and take the knife from his trembling hands, folding it shut in front of him while Penguin followed his movements.

Oswald couldn’t stop the shaking, he felt a mix of utter despair but also buoyancy. Ed placed the knife back where Oswald had grabbed it from and continued to watch him, waiting for Oswald to talk again. Neither of them moved away from the other, still daringly close.

‘ _Then you know that you’re standing too close_.’ Edward was thoroughly engrossed in the memory, having entered a new territory for him to plot out with Penguin. He briefly wondered why they hadn’t moved apart, and the thought must’ve crossed Penguin’s mind too as he finally stepped away, still observing Edward, mouth moving but no words coming out.

It was a few minutes before Penguin picked up the conversation again.

“I may be unencumbered, but this city has still proved its limit on worth to me.”

“That’s just not true, you have so much more to offer Gotham. You have ample opportunity for vengeance, a chance to make the city rue the day it took everything from you.”

“You are not understanding- there is nothing here worth my effort, let alone my patience. I have been ignorant of this fact too long.”

“There are people here who think otherwise-“

“Mr Nygma, you are barking up the wrong tree. I am still not entirely sure what you desired from me, but whatever outcome you had hoped, I must disappoint.” Completely sullen, and still shaking like a leaf, that’s all Oswald could muster. He hadn’t ventured into what Ed wanted from him in detail yet. Just the base premise that Ed needed a mentor, and that was it.

Edward needed a different tactic. He hadn’t entirely thought of this logically- well no, of course, he had thought of it logically. He hadn’t thought of it emotionally. He hadn’t thought of how grief would impact Penguin. He hadn’t anticipated the detrimental effects that it may have on his vendettas in Gotham. It had also given him doubt about the value he had placed on Penguin.

He had concluded that Penguin would be grief-stricken, after his slip up with a poor comparison, even though Edward barely understood it. He had never had a connection to someone that would make him feel like Penguin did. Not Miss Kringle, not his parents, no one at the precinct. He didn’t care for them like Penguin had cared for his mother.

“Tell me more about her,” Edward suggested, he needed him to mourn her passing.

“W-what?” Oswald’s brows furrowed, a little confused at the sway of the conversation. He thought of his nightmares every time he fell asleep. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think of more memories while he was awake too.

“Tell me why she was so important to you.”

“She’s my _mother_ \- _was_ my mother. Is there really more explanation needed?” Oswald took a shaky step back when Ed took one towards him, and then another when Ed tried again, but his back met the dining room table. “What are you-“

“I’ve upset you again.” Edward was on auto-pilot, uncertain why he was reaching forward, but he was and he couldn’t stop himself. He wrapped his arms around Penguin’s shoulders, pulling him forward into an embrace that was entirely one-sided. He rested his head on the top of Penguin’s messy raven locks, humming to the song he’d been singing earlier.

Oswald felt tears falling from his face, not knowing he had gotten so distraught. He wanted to think the affection was unwarranted, but it wasn’t. Since the passing of his mother all he had felt was pure rage, to this inexplicable cascade of sadness, to rage again, to the ephemeral terror of his childhood memories, to pain, and then to this bleakness. It was the idea of honouring her that turned Oswald into a blubbering mess, he hadn’t even thought of it. He hadn’t thought of when he’d have to bury her, or where her body was. He hadn’t thought of the apartment they had lived in for nearly twenty years.

He was certainly thinking of all of it now.

“I don’t even know where she is-“ Oswald said between sniffling, he had slumped his cheek against Ed’s chest. He wasn’t returning the comfort, just idly standing there with Ed grasping him.

“I do.” Edward found himself being pushed away after the words left him, Penguin looking up at him, silently demanding him to continue. “Her body came into the GCPD the morning it happened, Dr Thompkins-“

“Is she still there?”

“I don’t know, Mr Penguin-“

“For the love of God, please call me Oswald.”

Edward was beaming, _another line added to the list_. “I assume she’s still at the precinct, one of the detectives wanted all the bodies to be sent to the morgue as soon as possible, but Lee- Dr Thompkins was holding him off.”

“She cannot go to the morgue,” Oswald sighed. “Theo Galavan has likely paid off some of my associates to take over that job. She deserves a proper burial.”

Edward leisurely connected the dots of the morgue to Lee’s comment from the other day about the morgue being a subset to launder mob hits back into their hands – completely clean.

“I can call Dr Thompkins and have her hide her body in one of the-“

“Do that. Now.” Oswald commanded, not that Edward needed much coercion.

He nearly stumbled towards his overcoat hanging from the hook next to his door, pulling out his phone. He flipped it open, searching Lee’s phone number before dialling. Before he had even started talking, Lee was asking him how he was, if she needed to bring anything over, which Edward quickly shot down. She then tried to go into a spiel of the past day’s events, how they’re still out searching for- Edward had to shush her.

“I need a no-questions-asked favour,” he wasn’t entirely sure why Lee would go along with it, not even waiting to find out her answer. “Can you please move Gertrud Kapelput into your office?”

“ _Actually, funnily enough, Jim already asked me to do that.”_

“Of course he did.” He felt a jab in his side, looking over to see Oswald had moved next to him and was waiting rather impatiently for news. “Thanks, Lee.”

“ _But why would you_ -“

Edward snapped the phone shut, knowing she would ask, but he’d have to deal with that once he returned to work. Oswald folded his arms across his chest, tapping his right foot impatiently.

“Detective Gordon already had your mother moved into the Medical Examiner’s office. She’ll be there until we can make the proper arrangements.”

“Of course he did. What a _friend_.” Oswald said it rather bitterly, which crossed some wires in Edward’s understanding of the comment. It seemed contradicting to sound so sour towards Jim but calling him a friend in the same breath. Oswald uncrossed his arms, throwing them up briefly in frustration, which also earned a grimace of pain he tried to immediately mask. Edward was picking up on those.

“You should lay down.”

“I’m famished.” Oswald returned, ignoring the advice, but moved to rest in the bed anyway.

“Chinese?” Edward offered, happy that Oswald at least seemed less glum. He made a sound of agreement as he pressed a cheek into the pillow. “Consider it done.” He flipped open his phone again, making a call to the Chinese take-out restaurant he frequently ordered from.

“Fifty-minutes,” Edward said once he shut his phone, earning another noise of acknowledgement from the bed. Edward glanced at his watch, realizing he hadn’t checked on Oswald’s wound in awhile – which would be easier to do if he was sedated. “I’m going to need to re-dress your bandages soon, Mr Penguin.”

Oswald turned on his back, propping himself on his elbows, but upon feeling the shooting pain through his right arm, placed all his weight on his left side. “I can do it myself.”

“Mr Penguin-“

“Oswald.”

“Oswald,” Edward felt giddy at being on a first name basis. “With all due respect, you don’t have the strength to properly bandage yourself. Nor the capability of checking if the exit wound is infected.”

“Because a forensic scientist is much more adept at first aid than someone who has been pummelled on more than one occasion-“ Oswald paused. “I realize that sounds like I’ve been bested before, but I assure you any injury I’ve sustained has had an underlying purpose.”

“Including this one?” Edward pointed towards his right arm.

“A setback,” Oswald assured, with a returned air of confidence.

“And the end game?”

“Vengeance.” Oswald had answered so promptly, that he wasn’t sure if those were his intentions. He had already deliberated that leaving Gotham was ideal, was vengeance what he desired more? How did he let Ed manipulate the conversation enough to allow a subconscious thought escape? Dejected that someone could pull that out of him, he pressed his cheek back against the pillow, moving to lay on his stomach. He faced away from Ed, not wanting to play this game anymore. “You can change the bandages later.”

“Right now would be the ideal-“

“Later!” Oswald choked out. He felt roused into torment again, the sudden change in moods grappling his composure. He was violently shaking again. He couldn’t grasp why he felt like this, just that he felt irrefutable agony – not from the pain in his arm, or knee. For his mother, for having her die in his arms while he watched. How he watched the life drain from her eyes, ever certain how _good_ Oswald was, and he let her die.

There had been a moment in that Godforsaken warehouse, where Oswald had felt her soul leave her body. He had felt a hollowness like no other, like a part of him had been ripped out. He’d been momentarily petrified during the ordeal, the moments after her passing had been so still, so quiet. He felt tears escaping him once more, wetting the pillow that was not his own.

Oswald hadn't deserved the kindness of this stranger, but he was silently appreciative. Even more so when he felt the mattress shift with weight next to him. At some point, he’d shut his eyes, in a sorry attempt to keep from crying. He opened them to see Ed had nestled himself under the covers, reaching an arm out to pull Oswald into his chest. He hated the warmth so much, the tenderness, the feeling he earned from being enveloped. It was too much, and too little at the same time.

None of this took away the anguish in its entirety, but it did stop the shaking. Ed was humming again, running a hand in a circular motion over Oswald’s shoulder blade. It was soothing, but it made Oswald feel weaker than he already did. He didn’t need someone to take care of him. He didn’t need someone to coddle him like a child. He struck a hand up to lightly push Ed away from him, meeting bewildered dark eyes.

“I could kill you.” Oswald threatened, in a whisper, face red and lined with remnants of tears.

“I know.” Edward chuckled, he hoped it didn’t come out of as if he took the threat lightly, he just found it amusing Oswald needed to affirm his position of power over Edward. He pulled Oswald back against his chest. He was calmed that Oswald’s trepidation had stopped.

Edward didn’t find the contact as abhorrent as he initially thought he might. Not because he was displeased with the source of warmth, but because Edward still wasn’t comfortable with physical intimacy. His parents weren’t particularly _loving_ towards him, and he’d grown accustomed to that. It wasn’t until he’d been surrounded by people who grew up in different types of families that he realized physical closeness was important to a person’s well-being.

It might not have been an essential component of Edward’s life for the last twenty-nine years, but he recognized Oswald had a much different relationship with his mother.

“Did you know that frequent hugs can be an effective means of reducing the deleterious effects of stress?” Edward paused, but only heard a faint grunt in response. “The protective nature of hugs can be attributable to the physical contact itself, or hugging being a behavioural indicator of support and intimacy. Either way, those who receive more hugs are somewhat more protected from infection. Oxytocin gets released into the body during a hug, which is known to reduce blood pressure, lower anxiety, improve memory, and act as a natural stress-reliever. However, the hugs have to come from someone you trust, apparently strangers don’t always have the same positive effect.”

More grumbles against his chest, prompting Edward to ask for Oswald to speak louder and repeat himself. Oswald tilted his head back, maintaining the closeness, “ _you’re_ a stranger.”

Oswald’s breath against his neck caused mild delirium in Edward. He didn’t even know why. A natural physiological response, he theorized.

“Are my hugs not producing any positive effects on how you felt a couple of minutes ago?”

“Well, I mean-“ Oswald scoffed. “You just- I- I don’t know. No? Wait- I mean. Yes, they’re helping.”

Edward reached up with the arm not around Oswald’s shoulder, using his hand to press Oswald’s head back into his chest. He really couldn’t handle the hot breath on his neck anymore, still unsure what to make of it.

“Then I _guess_ you don’t think I’m a stranger.” Edward retorted, running his fingers through Oswald’s locks. “Or you’re just an outlier.”

Oswald hadn’t decided what he thought of any of this. He still had a million questions for what Ed wanted out of their arrangement, what Ed wanted in return for saving his life. He supposed he should be grateful, at some point deducing he should show his thanks for his personal nurse.

He was acclimatized to his mother being the only one who showed him any physical attention. Anyone else who had gotten close were a means to an end – normally an attempt at Oswald’s end. Physical beatings, forceful threats, those types of physical touches. Not hugs. Only his mother had ever been so kind. Oswald was feeling propitious to this new level of kindness.

He still felt lost in the uncertainty of the coming days. He was perceptive to the fact the only thing that had helped him feel grounded was the embrace he was in now. Oswald knew he couldn’t keep going on with his grief, he needed to move past it, rebuild his empire, and destroy Galavan. It didn’t help he was imprisoned, but Oswald was certain Galavan had a contingency plan. He just had to wait for it to surface. It was the first time in weeks that he felt his decision-making process wasn’t muddled in emotion.

It made Oswald astute to the notion that this hug was bringing a great deal of tranquillity to him. He couldn’t be reliant on it, this whole domestic scenario was temporary. His tactical planning capabilities were not hindered by his emotions before, and being calm wasn’t any more efficient. At least, that’s what he was telling himself on repeat.

“I’m not a mess anymore,” Oswald mumbled, pressing away from Ed’s chest.

“You weren’t a mess to begin with. Except for when I found you in the forest, _that_ was a mess.” Edward took the hint, unravelling himself and getting up from the bed.

The bell to his apartment rang through the apartment, startling them. “Oh yes! The food!” Edward grabbed two twenty dollar bills from his wallet on the night side table. He ensured the delivery man had no view of his apartment as he tipped him a considerable amount.

He motioned for Oswald to follow him to the dining table, laying out all the food he’d ordered. Edward had begun humming at some point again while they ate, Oswald was ravenous for the food in front of him. Edward’s humming eventually led to actual singing, which brought a genuine smile to Oswald's lips.

Oswald eventually joined in, after a considerable amount of red wine. Edward glanced over at him as they sang through the chorus, drumming chopsticks on his glass beaker to the tune of the song. Oswald was flush from the wine, his freckles more prominent across his cheeks.

Oswald stopped singing, an idea coming to fruition. “What happened to that gentleman you had tied up earlier?”

Edward stopped mid-sing, folding a hand over the other. “Galavan’s lackey? Why do you ask?”

Edward didn’t need an explanation, Oswald's expression saying all it needed to. He placed his chopsticks on the table and nearly jumped out of his chair. Edward moved towards the cupboard, pulling open the door to muffled whimpering. He leaned back to allow Oswald to see where he’d been stowed away.

The smaller male looked afflicted with happy anticipation and Edward couldn’t have felt more accomplished.

He had pulled the King of Gotham out of the grasps of tribulation, and now he was going to be a partnering piece to the mastermind’s craftsmanship. Edward was _delighted_.


	4. Counting Stars

“Keep the bag on.” Oswald stated when Edward reached to remove it. There was more muffled grunting as Oswald traced the switchblade across Mr Leonard’s shoulders, not with enough pressure to break the fabric of his suit jacket, but indicating to the man what was yet to come.

“What are you-“ Edward clenched his mouth shut when Oswald held the blade up at an angle in front of Mr Leonard.

The way Oswald worked was like clockwork. It wasn’t hesitant like Edward, who was still certain Tom Dougherty had fallen on his knife. Oswald started superficial, watching Mr. Leonard lurch forward as he plunged the blade into his thigh.

Edward recalled a time in University when he had taken an Art class as an elective (immediately regretted it, he’d thought it was Art History). His teacher had talked about abstract art as valueless – a cheap modern method to make a quick buck. Edward loved the concept behind abstract art, because it was never the same. It didn’t carry a clear definition, and any definition it did have was temporary. There was something so appealing to Edward about this type of art being a sheer playground of visual delight. In this moment, Oswald was painting his own piece, evoking all his emotions into the retributive justice that was Mr. Leonard’s death.

It hadn’t started aggressively, as Edward expected based on the stockpile of case files as if Oswald had been holding something back. Perhaps having an audience was a hindrance, Edward thought. He did probably look like a kid in a candy store, hands folded into each other, holding them at the base of his chin, watching with complete enthusiasm.

He was enthralled, it was like he’d been given the best gift in return for all his efforts. Maybe it made Oswald feel uncomfortable. Maybe he expected Edward to join in? He did prefer being a silent observer at that moment. He was watching an artist, after all.

Whatever worry Edward had about Oswald starting slow was quickly washed away.

It was like a switch had been flicked, a hurried shift to unadulterated rage. Oswald had twisted the knife in Mr Leonard’s thigh, basking in the grunts and whimpers.

Edward gained the knowledge from observing why Oswald had left the bag on Mr. Leonard’s head, it was causing a different pain to their subject. Every time he gasped in gain, he met resistance from the gag Edward had placed in his mouth, and then met the difficulty he had gaining a breath when there was so little. The insufficient oxygen every time he tried to breathe was its own form of torture.

“I don’t think you know this,” Oswald started, pulling the knife from Mr. Leonard’s thigh, aiming it back towards the limb. “Mr Leonard, but your boss was an inadequate man. Should have killed me himself, and if he had you wouldn’t be here.” There were more muffled cries as Oswald placed a gloved hand against the entry point of the wound on the man’s thigh, pressing his weight into it. “Your death will not be proportionate to his, whenever that time comes. However, it’s a _start_.”

Edward saw where Oswald was aiming the knife, the femoral artery. He had to refrain himself from clapping, teetering on his toes in excitement. Edward wasn’t entirely pleased his floor would be covered in blood, but it was an easy clean up, albeit a tedious one. He was mildly disappointed their lesson would be so short, but-

Oswald placed the knife on the kitchen table suddenly, looking around the room for something specific. His eyes fell to a trophy Edward had won from an article he wrote on _Forensics and Facial Reconstruction_ , not his best work, but still important. It was made of cheap metal, painted gold, Edward kept it around as it was… a sign of accomplishment.

Oswald picked it up, seeming to judge the weight, and then looked at Edward briefly as if to wordlessly ask _if this was okay to use_? Edward nodded, unsure how effective it would be.

“He killed her. She was innocent. She was everything to me.”

Oswald cracked it against Mr Leonard’s face with such blunt force, his head immediately fell forward from the impact. Edward wondered if one hit had rendered their victim bereft of life, but then Mr Leonard stirred, sounding as if he was trying to spit up against his gag. Oswald whipped the trophy across his face again, with less force.

Edward watched him visibly wince from the effort expended using his poorer arm, he was trembling again. Edward reached forward almost instinctively, wanting to help, but the fire in Oswald’s eyes stopped him. Oswald moved the trophy into his left hand, winding up and slamming it at a backwards angle against Mr Leonard’s temple.

The brunt of the blow was immediate, Mr. Leonard hunched forward in his seat a final time, unmoving and silent. Oswald dropped the weapon on the ground, reaching a hand up to rest against his chest. It had been such a release, so comforting. It _still_ wasn’t enough, and he knew that, but in that moment it was enough to bring him out of his stupor. He looked up to the ceiling, a soft chuckle coming from his lips. He couldn’t possibly leave Gotham – _it couldn’t be left to the dogs_. Oswald felt a tentative hand on his shoulder, causing him to pull away on reflex.

“You’re shaking again,” Edward stated, hand left lifted in limbo from Oswald flinching away.

“Just from the activity,” Oswald said dismissively, moving away from Mr Leonard’s dead body towards the bed, intent on rest. He felt renewed from killing Mr Leonard, but felt dizzy. “Don’t mistake it for discomposure.”

“I didn’t.” Edward followed him closely, noticing that the top he’d loaned Oswald had fallen off his shoulder, revealing bloodied bandages at the top of his arm. He clasped a hand around Oswald’s good wrist, pulling him back before he could fall into the bed sheets.

Oswald shot him a dangerous look and then glared down at the grasp Edward had on his wrist. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

Edward felt a little hurt from the tone but also understood his guest was coming off a high that Edward had also enjoyed once. “Your stitches have come undone, I need to fix them.”

“Maybe do them properly this time-“

Edward pinched Oswald’s wrist, earning a gasp. “There was nothing wrong with my methods, Mr Penguin. I just have a particularly reckless patient, who is completely obtuse to their injury, and refuses to take my treatment plan seriously.”

“You were the one that enticed me to-“

“I had expected you to let him drown in his own blood, not bludgeon him to death-“

“I was being mindful of your floors, Ed. You seem to have an incessant, overbearing need to keep things clean and pristine, I didn’t want you to spend the next several hours purging the floor of blood.” Oswald placed a finger to his temple, rubbing it in circles. Dizzy and a headache, not a great combination. “I have half a mind to think you’d probably burn this place to the ground if the stains didn’t come out.”

Edward laughed outwardly, the comment reminding him of how he set his car ablaze oh so many months prior. Oswald gave him a confused look, not really understanding why it had been so funny.

“It’s just-“ Edward said between breaths, “it- yeah, I might’ve.”

Suddenly mindful that he was still holding Oswald’s wrist, Edward pulled him towards the bathroom and had the reluctant male sit on top of the toilet seat cover. Edward reached up to begin unbuttoning the flannel shirt but had his hand slapped away.

“I am fully conscious right now, Ed.” Oswald reminded, undoing the buttons and folding the shirt over the side of the bathtub. He wondered if his nurse would allow him to bathe, it would do wonders with this _treatment plan_.

Edward silently pulled out his first aid kit, all the new materials added. He followed the same pattern he had the night before, pulling the items out that he needed and laying them opposite to Oswald on the counter. Oswald propped up his arm on the bathroom counter, hoping it would get the job done faster, but Edward pulled his arm back down.

“It’s easier if you leave it relaxed,” Edward pointed out, placing Oswald’s hand on his thigh.

“The way you did it before impeded my freedom of movement, perhaps doing it my way would be an improvement. It shouldn’t be taking this long to recuperate.” Oswald was growing impatient, tapping his foot against the bathroom tile.

“You do recall being shot, right? Should I be checking for brain damage too?” Edward teased, raising three fingers in front of Oswald’s face, “how many fingers do you see?”

“Two after I sever one off.”

“As I said before, there was nothing wrong with my methods,” Edward had contained the urge to roll his eyes, he didn’t want it to be misinterpreted for unconcern of Oswald’s threat. “You still need ample time to heal, which means no more gifts. I am prescribing forced rest, limited movement around the apartment, and medication. I foresee at least a couple of weeks before you’re back to a hundred percent.”

“I have a better idea,” Oswald plastered a smile on his face, pulling up from the seat to grab the first aid kit. Edward was quick to react, blocking Oswald from reaching it, and forcing him back down by his shoulders, earning an annoyed huff. Oswald went to cross his arms over his chest, but the dull burn of pain caused him to immediately move his arms back to his side. In a defeated tone, he mumbled, “get on with it already.”

“I thought you weren’t in pain?” Edward asked sarcastically.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome here,” Oswald was burning a hole in the bathtub next to him, not wanting to look towards Ed. “As fun as this has been, I do have things to do. I’ll be leaving tonight.”

“Sorry, but no,” Ed said sternly, causing Oswald to snap his head towards him. He opened his mouth to argue, but Ed had a needle to his neck so swiftly Oswald couldn’t even register where and when it had appeared.

“You little-“ Oswald had raised his arms in some menial attempt to throttle Ed’s neck, but his world went black, and he hunched forward into the man instead.

Edward sighed, pulling him to lay against the side of the bathtub like he had done so many hours prior. He guessed it was the lack of sleep, but he had grown irate with Oswald’s attitude. Normally he had more patience, and he would’ve imagined having even _more_ patience for someone he admired. It was nearing thirty-six hours of dealing with Oswald, and he’d just grown exhausted. He needed the silence, at least for a little bit.

He got to work on removing the previous stitches and redid them with as much attention as he could. Edward felt hot as he re-bandaged Oswald, imagining how if he’d still been awake he probably would’ve watched every move he made with scrutiny. He probably would’ve offered Edward helpful advice on how to improve his technique, worded as an insult. Was that just the way Oswald worked? Laced everything with a double meaning? ‘ _What a sorry attempt of a stitch, reduce it to a sixth of an inch spacing and it makes for a more durable hold.’_

Edward ignored the thought, it hadn’t been a real recommendation, just an imagined one. Perhaps if he had to re-do Oswald’s stitches for the third time, he’d consider letting him have an input. He left the bathroom briefly and returned with new flannel pyjamas, these ones a dark forest green with a lighter green and purple trim. Edward felt he needed to wash Oswald’s current ones. Although, if the bloodstains were permanent, he’d resolve to throw them out.

He redressed the smaller male, feeling marginally guilty about sedating him again. It had worked out to both their advantages to force rest on Oswald. It kept him silent and reduced his pain. He lifted Oswald off the bathroom floor once he was dressed in fresh clothes, moving him to his bed. Once Oswald seemed comfortable, he took his place on the couch again, content to stare at the messy patch of black hair that peaked out from the sheets.

Edward had enjoyed the silence while he’d been focused on the stitches, but now it was unwelcome. He felt on edge for some reason, wondering if he should check in with Lee. Gotham would be okay for one more evening, wouldn’t it? His curiosity got the best of him, calling Lee’s phone for the second time that day. He was surprised she answered so late. Again, a slew of questions about his health met his ear.

“I won’t be coming in tomorrow,” Edward forced a cough, earning a comforting sigh from Lee.

“ _Of course Ed, anything you need. Is Miss Kringle there to take care of you_?”

“No,” Edward let out another series of forced coughs, hoping it would force an end to the conversation. “She hasn’t answered my calls.”

“ _I’ll call her to see where she is and let her know to head over there. I’m sure she’s already on her way. Get better soon_!”

“Thank you.” Edward added another loud cough before snapping his phone shut, likely eliciting more pity from the doctor. He threw his phone to the other side of the couch and leaned his head back against the cushion. He debated laying out lengthwise, but sleep found him before he could rearrange himself.

* * *

“You should at least be awake before I kill you.”

The statement woke Edward with a start, along with the sharp jabs to his shoulder. Soft morning light had broken around the small apartment, sunlight specifically shining on the individual who was standing in front of him. Acutely aware now that Oswald had needed to straddle Edward's long legs to poke him with his finger, Edward pulled himself up flush against the couch, which also forced Oswald to take a step back.

“W-what?” Edward rubbed at the sleep at the corners of his eyes, before adjusting his glasses to sit properly on his face. He was also made aware of two empty bottles of wine on the floor.

“I was just suggesting you might want to be awake for when I kill you,” Oswald repeated, Edward finally noticing the kitchen knife in his hand. “I did warn you about sedating me.”

“My thanks for nursing you back to health is you killing me?” Edward deadpanned.

“Well, that was my initial plan when I woke up… which was nearly two hours ago.” Oswald paced back and forth in front of Edward, not looking towards him. He swung the knife like a pendulum in his palm. “Then I realized how hungry I was, and found out we forgot to refrigerate the leftovers.”

“So?”

“I’d rather be fed,” Oswald turned towards the kitchen, returning the knife to its holder.

“Good to know you’re in such high spirits that you wanted to start your day with murder.” Edward got up from the couch, straightening his sweater. When was the last time he showered and changed? He’d have to get Oswald to shower at some point too. Edward mentally added the third activity to his docket when he realized one of his kitchen table chairs was still occupied by a dead body.

“The best days begin with carnage.” Oswald started to hum as he rummaged through Edward’s fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and various vegetables, placing them carefully on the counter. “How capable are you at making an omelette?”

“Few have had the pleasure of experiencing my exceptional cooking skills,” Edward nudged Oswald’s hip with his own as he took out a frying pan, silently asking Oswald to remove himself from the kitchen. “I’m sure they’ll be to your satisfaction.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Oswald scoffed, before moving to sit at one of the chairs next to the kitchen island, watching as Edward went to work at the stove.

Edward could feel the watchful eye on him as he cooked, wondering if he should be embarrassed or gratified. It also made him glad he’d sedated Oswald the previous evening, worried he might have slipped up in his precision having someone boring a hole into his soul with such a piercing glare. Edward allowed the eggs to simmer on the pan, reaching up to knead his thumb into the right side of his neck.

“You should really sleep in your bed,” Oswald suggested, continuing to watch as Edward tried to relieve the stiffness in his neck. “As you said, I’m in much better spirits, and I would fit much better than you on the couch.”

“You are my _guest_ ,” Edward removed the hand from his neck, rotating the pan on the stove to check the consistency of the egg before adding chopped bell peppers and shredded sharp cheddar. After allowing the new ingredients time to meld into the egg, he added sliced ham, before folding over half of the egg and allowing it to simmer again. “Your comfort as my patient is more important than my own, for the moment.”

“I don’t like being coddled.”

“You got shot,” Edward asserted, flipping the egg on the pan for a handful of seconds before grabbing a plate from the drying rack and plopping the omelette onto it. He handed the plate to Oswald, not sure if he wanted to wait to see his reaction before starting on his own. Deciding that Oswald would pick up on Edward’s need for affirmation, and possibly make fun of him for it, he turned to work on his own breakfast. “Normally people who get shot at least accept help.”

“I am not a-”

“Conventional person? Yes, that probably was a poor comparison.” Edward interrupted, adding an egg to the pan. “You haven’t been enervated by your injury, at least no longer mentally, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t physiological repercussions if you don’t allow your body time to rest.”

Oswald replied with silence, which was a change. Edward looked over his shoulder to see if he’d fallen asleep on the kitchen island but was met instead with Oswald finishing the last of the egg.

“It was _all right_ ,” Oswald stated impassively when he noticed Edward’s smug smile. “I have had better.”

Edward rolled his eyes, focusing his attention back to his nearly finished breakfast, and finally moving to take up the seat next to Oswald. Yes, definitely not his best, but he hadn’t acquired proper groceries in some time. The last time had been in preparation for dinner with Miss Kringle, and he only bought enough to suffice for the evening. He had thought it might be nice if she would accompany him the next morning to the store- ' _stop thinking about the past_.'

The thought forced his heart to skip a beat. That hadn’t been one of the normal voices. This one was familiar, and not male. He’d been doing just fine the last a day or so, finding some sort of amalgamation with the voices, it caused them to mostly cease. He had also been completely distracted.

“Ed?”

Edward became aware of the prod to his shoulder, Oswald looking at him like he’d been frozen. Oswald calling his name had sounded particularly faint, so it wouldn’t surprise him if he had called out to him more than once already.

“S-sorry, what?” Edward shook his head, realizing he had a piece of his omelette hanging on the fork in front of his face.

“I asked if you had any peanut butter, preferably smooth,” Oswald repeated, still studying him.

“It’d be barbaric if it was any other type.” Edward pointed towards the corner cupboard. “Bread is underneath-“

“In the bread box? How orderly of you.” Oswald teased, rotating on the high-chair and moving to the indicated cupboard, preparing the peanut butter sandwich.

“I have to get rid of Mr Leonard’s body today,” Edward said as the minutes passed, collecting his and Oswald’s plates from the counter and immediately washing them. “And you need to shower.”

“I’m partial to baths.” Oswald turned to lean against the counter, eating the sandwich.

“Whichever, just-“ Edward reached out, placing the back of his hand against Oswald’s forehead, forcing him to reflexively twitch away. Realizing it wasn’t to cause him harm, Oswald let him continue. “Not too warm, and not for too long. I can’t have you overheating. Fever and infection could still occur.”

“Do you have Epsom salts?” Oswald asked, dismissing Edward’s instructions. The best baths were _scalding_ hot, after all.

“No, but I can pick some up after I dispose of Mr Leonard and get some more food to cook with.”

Oswald nodded, finishing his sandwich, and moving to sit on the couch. “Any news on Galavan?”

“You were up before me, you know as much as I do.”

Oswald slowly nodded, tapping his fingers on the couch’s armrest, impatiently. He didn’t like being so sedentary, it was unproductive. As it stood, Gotham was stagnant, and he was still wanted by the GCPD. He seldom noticed as Ed sat down opposite to him, coffee mug in hand.

“Why did you kill your girlfriend?” Oswald needed to be preoccupied with different thoughts. He stifled a chuckle when Ed nearly dropped his mug on his lap, the question catching him off-guard.

“What? I- well, it’s not really- it’s rather-“

“Never mind,” Oswald sighed. “Just curious. I needed the distraction, is all.”

Edward took a minute to mull over it, finally deciding how to answer: “It was an accident.”

Oswald raised a brow, “you accidentally killed the-“ he raised two fingers on each hand to emphasize air quotes, “ _love of your life?”_

“It’s not- you don’t… understand.” Edward got up from the couch unsteadily, coffee mug still in hand as he started to do slow laps around the couch. “She just wouldn’t... she didn’t-“ He fought with the thoughts in his head. He hadn’t confronted the memories in full yet, just kept telling himself it was all for a greater purpose, it all led him here. Edward knew he’d come to terms with it all, but he didn’t get the significance of sharing these details. “Accidental asphyxiation.”

Oswald watched him continue to pace, now observing as Edward started to chew on one of his fingernails. Why did he think this was a good topic of conversation again? “That doesn’t answer why.”

“She threatened to leave.”

“How long had you been seeing each other?”

“Only a few weeks.”

Oswald scoffed, he really hadn’t meant to, it was just an auto-response, same as he had when Edward had told him how many people he had killed. He didn’t want Edward to feel that his responsiveness to his questions wasn’t unvalued. He’d learn one day how to be more compassionate.

“A few weeks is hardly enough time to fall in love, don’t you think?”

In Oswald’s naïve mind, there was truth to this. He couldn’t comprehend how someone could fall so quickly, especially to the whims of another. It couldn’t be that easy, so easy to trust in someone, so easy to allow them to overwhelm your whole world to be the love of your life.

‘ _There is only one._ ’ He recalled a conversation he had with his mother about love, concluding he really didn’t think Edward could’ve felt love for someone he barely had time with at all and even killed her. It wasn’t possible to kill the love of your life, right?

“I had known her for much longer, we worked together at the GCPD.”

“That cesspool doesn’t have much in way of copacetic companions.”

“True,” Edward stopped to smile briefly, before continuing his pace. “She was unlike the rest of them.”

“Why did she want to leave then?”

Edward had pulled so much skin off one of his fingers it had started bleeding. He hadn’t noticed the copper taste in his mouth till he felt a hand wrap around his wrist, pulling the hand away from his mouth.

“That’s unsanitary,” Oswald pointed out, with a much softer tone than he thought was possible. He went to the bathroom to pull out a band-aid from the kit, ripping it open as he came back, placing it around Edward’s finger. “You’re making me dizzy from walking in circles, sit down.”

Edward obeyed submissively, nestling back on the side of the couch he’d been on earlier, Oswald taking the opposite side again.

“I killed her ex-boyfriend.”

Oswald scrunched his brows together, trying to make sense of the timeline. “For the purpose of attaining her affections?”

“Not at first.”

“Just because?”

“He was abusing her.” Edward blurted, his voice cracking. It still angered him.

Oswald formed an ‘o’ with his lips, not wanting to press the conversation more than he needed to. He would wait to see if Ed would continue on his own accord. It did make Oswald feel fond of his own personal nurse, knowing his kindness was pure. He never did understand why domestic violence was so rampant in the world, Gotham being no exception. If someone wanted to share their lives with another person, how could they ever succumb to wanting to hurt them?

“She-“ Edward started again, voice small. “She came to work with bruises. I-I tried to get him to concede, but he thought it was a joke, that I was a joke. So, I posted up as sentry outside of her house and waited until he showed up, and he did. He tried to best me, and he fell on my knife… eleven times.”

“Fell on your-“ Oswald was going to poke fun, but Ed had started shaking like a leaf. He felt wary comforting someone else, but Ed had been kind to him when he’d been upset. He scooted over on the couch, placing his poorer arm around Ed’s shoulders. Oswald held in a gasp of pain from the movement, indulging instead in how Ed visibly relaxed within seconds. Or tensed, he couldn’t tell the difference.

Edward knew Oswald had no way of knowing he didn’t need physical contact to help reign in his emotions, but it was nice to know he was capable of some level of commiseration. It did immediately cause a shift in him; Edward misconstruing it as him needing to regain balance, instead of anything else. He ignored how when he swallowed, it felt like his saliva had coagulated on its way down the back of his throat, attributing it to the bout of retrospection.

Edward thought the voices would be back the moment he started recounting what had happened with Miss Kringle, but nothing. There was only the silence of his own thoughts. His heartbeat had slowed being close to Oswald as if entirely bringing his mind to ease.

“When Miss Kringle and I finally started to date, she was so worried he’d kill me. I had to tell her, it was the only way for her to see what I had done for her. She didn’t see it that way. I tried to defuse the situation,” Edward choked out, earning a stronger grip on his shoulder. “She called me a psychopath, a freak, a sicko, I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t know what was happening until she was already dead. Half of me had been making proclamations of love, and the other half had been suffocating her to death.”

Ed had his fists in a ball so tight on his thigh, they were threatening to pierce the bandage Oswald had put on his finger. Oswald used his free hand to place it on top of Ed’s blanched ones. The effect was instant, Ed released his grip but still left his fingers in a fist.

“If she had gotten away, you would be locked up now.” Oswald offered, with a small smile. “Blackgate would’ve been a hellish place for you, and Arkham would’ve been worse.”

“It’s what I deserve.”

“If there is punishment people like you and I deserve, it will come in the form of karmic retribution. Being imprisoned isn’t a proper consequence of our actions,” it pained Oswald to talk like this. Pained him to acknowledge his own mistakes would always wreak havoc in return, “events like my mother being murdered, or you killing Miss Kringle is our penance.”

“I’m not sure that’s how karma works.” It had brightened Edward to talk about it. He shifted his thigh, feeling like Oswald was burning a hole from the top of his hand all the way into it. Oswald retracted both his arms, making Edward surprisingly miss the warmth.

“It’s exactly how karma works.” Oswald asserted, they were still seated close enough to cause an underlying air of comfort, but both had started to feel unnerved. “My moral failures brought death upon my mother. She saw me in a light that said I was good-natured, perhaps not as innocent as she wanted me to be, but enough so she would always love me. My actions for over a year have brought my own downfall.”

“I don’t think failures count if you learn from them.”

“Is that how you’ve absolved yourself?” Oswald asked bitterly. He inched away from Ed, taking up the other side of the couch again. He needed the distance, he might have initiated it this time, but for whatever reason, it had been too stimulating. “This world you want to dive into – it’s not an investment you want to make. You won’t be the same.”

“That’s the point.” Edward moved across the couch so quickly Oswald had barely any time to register that he felt on fire where their legs touched. “What is it that no man ever yet did see, which never was, but always is to be?”

Oswald looked down at the lack of gap between them, then to how Edward had his arm spread behind his shoulders, on the back of the couch. He finally realized he’d been asked a riddle, stammering out his response, “t-tomorrow.”

Ed clapped his hands together, getting up from the couch, allowing Oswald to breathe again.

“Yesterday’s pain is in the past. Tomorrow we are anew. I can’t go back to the way things were.” Edward emphasized this by shuddering. “Everyone in the GCPD has treated me as if I was defective.”

“The GCPD is renowned for housing imbeciles.” Oswald leaned his chin into his palm, resting his elbow against the armrest.

“I want to make them see the error in their actions.”

“How?”

Edward sighed, plopping down on the couch, flinging his arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe we’ll make plans for that another day, then.” Oswald was appreciative he hadn’t sat down too close this time. Still not a normal distance away, but enough he didn’t feel like his breathing was constricted. And then Ed broke out into a smile so large it caused his lungs to stop functioning anyway.

“You’ll take me up on my offer then?”

“You propositioned me with an offer?” Oswald asked, bewildered.

“To be my mentor.”

“Oh, _fine_ -“ Oswald elongated the word more than necessary, tempted to retract it. “Yes, fine, sure.”

The smile Oswald earned was enough to make him not immediately regret it.

The thoughts thereafter, once Ed had gotten up to dispose of Mr Leonard, those were what caused an affliction. When he had the apartment to himself, looking around the small room. Looking over the life that Ed had built for himself. The knick-knacks that gave the apartment a childishness to it. The beakers for glasses that he wondered how often were used for actual chemical experiments. The glare of the green neon sign outside that read “ _Toys and Games_ ” that lit up the bachelor at night, adding to the apartment’s ‘fun house’ flare.

Ed was gentle, but people weren’t nice to Oswald unless there was an underlying pretext. Ed’s kindness, fondness, appreciation- whatever it was towards him, was misplaced, and Oswald couldn’t find the steps to this dance to return to a point of mere acquaintances. People died around him, in his wake, or as a result of Oswald’s enemies taking advantage of his weakness – his mother the first to actually matter – and he hoped for her to be the last.

He hadn’t understood the difference between kindness and being exploited until Ed had made it a point to nurse him back to health. Jim Gordon always used him for his own gain, he owed Oswald more than he could ever repay. Ed had given him a gift with no price tag, in the form of Mr Leonard to help him recover and rediscover his malignant tendencies.

Was this what it meant to have a real friend? For banter, for plots, for the company? Oswald was a terrible friend to pick up out of that desolate forest, and he needed the earliest out he could find. He had agreed to be Ed’s ‘ _mentor_ ’, not that he knew what that would entail… but Oswald couldn’t have one more person on the short-list to be used against him. It was against all logic.

Oswald roamed slowly over to the electric piano, lightly running his fingers over the keys. He had begun to play _All I Ask of You_ but moved into _Heart and Soul_ as the melody was easier on his right hand.

He needed whatever contingency plan Galavan had to finally surface, so he could have the most believable excuse to leave, and never return. It just made sense. Oswald was certain of this, headstrong even. He wouldn’t overstay his welcome, he’d keep his distance, he wouldn’t continue to offer more information on his life than necessary, and he’d ensure Ed knew this was only temporary.

It was when Ed re-entered the apartment – grocery bags in hand – a new prescription bottle he placed on the kitchen counter – a bag of Epsom salts that he dropped next to Oswald on the couch – hair curly from the rain outside – and humming along to the song Oswald had _just_ been playing on the piano; it forced him to re-evaluate what he’d been confident of thirty seconds prior. It was those brown eyes, so lively from disposing a body and then running errands like it was a _normal_ thing to do. It was the crippling need Ed had for someone to introduce him to Gotham’s underworld.

It was all so captivating.

Ed’s desire to be so involved made Oswald reminisce of when he had been so small and insignificant to the likes of Falcone, Maroni, or Fish. Ed knew what it meant to be disregarded.

They shared more they didn’t even realize, yet were on two different polar ends. Oswald was reactive, extreme, and ruthless. Ed was impassive, composed, and benevolent. They were both calculative, ambitious, and _damaged_.

It was all the uncertainty that forced Oswald to wrestle with wanting to stay or go. Seeing all directions to a situation came as second-nature to him, but it wasn’t like that with Ed. It was all so hazy.

He let Ed talk for what seemed like hours, bouncing from one subject to another. Talking about the GCPD, about the moronic people he dealt with on a daily basis, except for Jim (which caused Oswald to huff) and Dr Thompkins. Talking about things he had learned about while working in forensics. Things Ed had studied about, prompting Oswald to ask him about the trophy he murdered Mr Leonard with, which resulted in several discussions of various prizes Ed had won.

Ed had paused at some point, realizing it was almost noon and it had been the longest Oswald had been lucid and alert. He moved to the kitchen to make lunch, telling Oswald he should run a bath while he cooked. Chicken Parmesan was what he had settled on, knowing his guest should still have an appetite.

Oswald nodded in Ed’s direction, grabbing the salts and making his way to the washroom. He felt particularly vulnerable that the bathroom didn’t have a lock, but knew it wasn’t his place to complain. He poured two cups of the lavender scented salts into the tub, dropping an arm into the water to aid in their dissolve, and to test the water temperature. Ed would not approve, that was for sure. Oswald envisioned him being scolded for it being such a _scalding_ temperature.

“Rebelling against the doctor’s wishes,” Oswald muttered. He felt immediate relaxation from sitting in the tub, nearly falling asleep within the first few minutes. It was a nice relief, as the silence had been earlier. Oswald kept trying to remind himself Ed’s domicile was not a permanent fixture.

* * *

After lunch, Oswald berated Edward again about needing to sleep in his own bed, if at the very least, allowing them to alternate evenings.

“Have you ever realized you don’t think very tactically when you’re emotional?” Edward imposed, trying to curve the conversation. He still felt as if Miss Kringle occupied one side of the bed, in some phantasmal manner.

“Wh-what even?” Oswald gaped, bewildered. “I’m hardly overwrought towards you getting a proper night’s sleep-“

“I mean in the way you murder people.”

Oswald’s mouth hung open, closing and reopening it in some method to try to answer what he’d been asked. He couldn’t find an answer, he felt as if he was missing the context.

“Let me rephrase-“

“Yes, you probably should.” Oswald tapped his fingernails against the dining table.

“I just think you need to learn how to control your expressive responses to things like your mother being kidnapped-“

“Try again.” Oswald sneered, the tapping getting more aggressive.

“Allow me to time to articulate.” Edward paused, making a presumptuous gesture by reaching out to grip Oswald’s hand, ceasing its’ tapping. “I don’t mean it as an insult, _however_ -“ He squeezed the hand, earning a glare, but also taking note that Oswald had relaxed. “You are notoriously known for having a temper. It hasn’t been an entirely detrimental trait for you until it involved your mother. You only saw rage, and it left witnesses to tie you to the crime. The only other time I’d seen you make a mistake was when you used the same knife to kill a young male outside Gotham and a mobster in a parking garage. Perhaps if you hadn’t-”

“Wait, wait, wait-“ Oswald pulled his hand away, shaking his head. “How do you know about that?”

“I work for-“

“No, I know that. If you had been able to make that connection, why am I not already incarcerated?”

“Because it was all circumstantial. Yes, it was the same weapon, but you were still effective at leaving no DNA evidence behind. The only certainty I had was the recording of you threatening his mother-“

Oswald slammed his palm on the table, stopping Edward from continuing. He lifted the butter knife from the table, aiming it at Edward threateningly. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, no, no, no-“

“Is this some sort of elaborate scheme to implicate myself? No concrete evidence, so GCPD uses a civilian to find the truth?” Oswald was at his feet now, reaching across the dining room table, knife held outwards.

Edward laughed, halting the other male from pressing forward. “ _This_ is what I mean!” He continued to laugh, not even slightly fearful as he moved from the table to his armoire, pulling out the file he had hidden in the bottom drawer. He walked back to the table, placing it down ceremoniously in front of Oswald. “Think _logically_. You came upon two bodies I had yet to bury. I nursed you back to health. I let you kill a man in my home. I disposed of the body. None of that indicates this being some _elaborate_ scheme. You jump to conclusions too quickly.”

Oswald stared at the thick file folder, immediately noticing his name taped at its indicator. “What is this?”

“ _You_ , from a bird’s eye view.”

Oswald filtered through its contents, stopping on the pictures and synopsis of events he had been involved in; how Dr Thompkins referred to Caulfield’s murderer to be ‘ _depraved_ ’, how Ed had scrawled ‘ _brilliant_ ’ underneath, how Frankie Carbone’s death was ‘ _vile_ ’ yet ‘ _beautiful_ ’, Oswald continued to read until he couldn’t bear it, coming across a photo of his mother.

It felt like his privacy had been violated like he’d been watched the whole time through his progression. It was manipulative, to be so thorough. Oswald wasn’t sure if Ed thought he might be _flattered_ by his obsessive need to follow his path, but that’s not how he felt at all. He felt livid.

“What is this?” Oswald slapped the file shut.

“I told you-“

“Why would you show me this?”

“T-to help you.”

“How is this supposed to help? GCPD has me outlined as the textbook definition of a psychopath-“

“This isn’t the file the GCPD has... well, they didn’t at _first_.” Edward shuffled his feet, making a point to stare at the sign across the street. “Okay, well it is the one they have now, but that wasn’t my fault. I had hidden it. Yet, Barnes found it, _somehow_.”

Remembering how Ed had already made a psychoanalysis about his fiery temper, he tried to find calm. Perhaps this wasn’t as deranged as he initially thought. It was Ed’s job to be absolute in his work. He did find it amusing that Ed hadn’t expected it to ever get discovered.

“I guess I’m not the only one who miscalculates,” Oswald said pointedly.

The more the seconds passed, the less absurd it seemed. Perhaps he was a _little_ flattered.

“There’s nothing wrong with the acerbity behind your practices, it’s only when you get out of control that you make mistakes. I’m sure it doesn’t help your blood pressure, things like this could kill you one day, y’know. _Fun fact_ – hypertension can damage your blood vessels, heart, kidneys, and other vital organs. You could get heart disease, have a stroke-“

“Ed-“

“You should really limit how much alcohol you drink, limit your daily intake of salt, don’t let stress build up-“

“Ed!” Oswald snapped his fingers in front of his face, finally focusing his attention to him. “I _admit_ that I wasn’t as careful during the two weeks that led up to my mother’s death. As you said, so long as I learn from my mistakes, they don’t really count, correct?”

“Yes, but suppressing-“

“Your analysis is duly noted, Ed.”

Edward fidgeted, disheartened knowing he still hadn’t been able to offer a full explanation.

Oswald rolled his eyes, realizing the relentless need Edward had to finish his thought. “Go on then, _continue_ , before I change my mind.”

Edward clapped his hands together, a new smile gracing his features. “You could be more masterful in your tactics if you learned to allow more people around you to do your killing for you-“

“You’ve clearly missed the last couple of months-“

“I mean having a _true_ hierarchy, almost a separation. You being the top of the totem pole, no direct dealings with underlings, while you try to run something legitimately. As a front. You could conserve your energy for only the most important aspects of your job, and avoid being implicated in further crimes.”

“I prefer a face-to-face approach.”

“It’s just a thought,” Edward shrugged.

“One that I will take under advisement, at a later date, I’m sure. For now, I still want Galavan’s head on a silver platter.”

* * *

Edward was still insistent on sleeping on the couch, much to Oswald annoyance later on that evening. They had spent the remainder of the day playing the piano and singing to various songs, although Oswald mostly watched and listened. They chatted more about the ‘ _why’s_ ’ of Oswald’s various murders, although he had found it difficult to even remember some of them.

He talked of Fish Mooney, talked of how he had gone from lowly servant to pushing her off a ledge. How she’d been imperative to his path, even though he felt only fear and resentment towards her memory. He talked about the many favours he had earned from Jim Gordon, on his illustrious path to rid Gotham of its horrors. He vaguely talked about how he wanted to be a builder in Gotham, how Galavan merely wanted to destroy the city, and how he could never do so. Oswald talked, and Edward listened.

Edward eventually talked more about his role at the GCPD, about why he wanted to be a forensic scientist, talked about where the GCPD kept evidence, where they kept seized product and money – where they likely kept Oswald’s money from the Count House. Oswald prompted him to talk more about things unrelated to GCPD but soon found Edward didn’t have much content to flow with.

Edward didn’t have a life outside the GCPD, his work had been all that entertained him during the day. Everything else outside of it had been monotonous, he cooked, cleaned, did errands, came home, slept, showered, worked, and then hit repeat. The only thing that had caused a variation was Miss Kringle, and now Oswald.

His life wasn’t nearly as colourful as Oswald’s was, but it could be.

“That’s the _point_ , isn’t it?” Edward asked him. “To not have an insipid life?”

“For some people, yes.”

Edward was desperate for it, for everyone to know he was a threat, to find his own meaning in life. For the GCPD to not be the only thing that forced him to get up in the morning.

“Are you going back there in the morning?”

“Unfortunately.”

They talked more about menial things, less serious than the monstrous elements of their daily lives. Favourites - songs, colours, seasons, holidays. It was late when Ed had to practically shove Vicodin down Oswald’s throat before they’d gone to sleep, bargaining that it was that or being sedated again.

* * *

Edward had intended to wake up early in preparation to return to his dreadful job. He woke up to the smell of breakfast, completely surprised his apartment wasn’t in flames. Oswald had kept it rather basic (bacon, scrambled eggs, toast), not that Edward wasn’t appreciative, it had saved him a considerable amount of time.

Edward took up a seat at the kitchen island, observing Oswald as he had been watched the day prior.

“I’m not going to pretend I’m very good at cooking,” he pointed out, placing a plate in front of Edward. “My mother did most of it. She didn’t see a point in teaching me how,” he finished in a whisper, “she always kept telling me I’d find a proper woman to cook for me.”

“Thank you for making this, it’s delicious.”

The smile he earned from Ed was enough to keep him content for the entire day.

“I hope it goes without saying, but you can’t leave the apartment, Oswald.” Edward patted the edge of his lips with a napkin, folding it and placing it on the plate. “And you need to take one of those pills every four hours.”

“Sorry, no promises on either of those demands,” Oswald replied, giving the bottle of pills a rather disgusted look. He’d been tempted to flush them down the toilet while Edward had still been asleep. “Vicodin has given me dreadful nosebleeds in the past, hence why I’m not keen on taking them.”

“Only if the pain becomes unbearable-“

“It never does.”

“Well when it does,” Edward demanded, “but please don’t leave. It’s still unseen what’s transpired over the last couple of days. You need to rest. I’ll be extremely disappointed if I have to nurse your wound again.”

“If you did a better job of it, you wouldn’t have to.”

“Again, I have a rather despondent patient-“

“Yes, yes, my own fault and all that.” Oswald flicked his hand in the air dismissively. “I will make an attempt to stay here.”

“Don’t make a mess or break anything.”

“You’d probably kill me, so, I’ll try not to.”

Oswald had started to clean up in the kitchen but was immediately removed. Obviously, Ed had his own way of meticulously washing dishes. Oswald roamed around the apartment for the millionth time, stopping when he noticed a piece of bloodied fabric underneath the piano stand. He’d have to dispatch of that later, entirely focused on the bookcase opposite to the window.

Leave it up to Ed to have it organized by subject, and then alphabetically. Oswald pulled _Hamlet_ from one of the shelves, moving to sit down on the couch. He tried to recall the last time he’d read it, likely years prior, out of avid curiosity. He hadn’t much time for leisure reading anymore. He inconspicuously glanced at Ed as he moved around to get prepared for work, noting the lanky male did not seem to want to leave, pausing to adjust the covers of the bed sheets at least four times, checking his hair in the bathroom mirror at least five times, using a lint roller about six times, and then telling Oswald exactly seven times how he needed to ensure he slept most of the day.

“Ed, GCPD isn’t going to combust if you look into the mirror for the _sixth_ time.” Oswald pressed the Shakespearean classic against his thighs, chuckling when Ed gave him an uncharacteristic glare.

Ed opened his mouth to retort _that perhaps it might_ , Oswald guessed, but he closed it. He went to grab his overcoat, wallet, and keys, and slowly opened the sliding door to the apartment. He glanced over at Oswald for a final time, opening his mouth again.

“I will not leave, I will heed my doctor’s advice, and will try to keep the apartment as orderly as possible,” Oswald stated, putting three fingers into the air. “Scout’s honour.”

“Somehow I doubt all of that very much,” Edward stated, closing the door to the apartment and moving to the elevator.

Oswald waited about ten minutes before diving to the landline and calling Gabe, giving him the address and phone number of where he was located. He also gave strict instructions to not come by, since he was sure the GCPD were following him.

Gabe then gave him the news that Galavan’s trial and prospective sentencing was later that afternoon, and it sent Oswald reeling.

“ _Should I put a hit out on him, boss_?”

“No, that would mean I don’t get the benefit of killing him.”

“ _It would be the perfect opportunity – could blow up the vehicle he’s travelling in from Blackgate_.”

“No! You _idiot_ ,” Oswald breathed in, “it’ll be heavily protected, Gabe. No point in losing men for something I can accomplish on my own. Ensure you have men there to tail Galavan if something goes awry.”

“ _You got it, boss_.”

Oswald had to refrain from smashing the phone into the ground, presently his only access to the outside world. He paced the apartment for several minutes before noticing again the piece of fabric on the floor, pulling it out from underneath the piano stand. It came out, unravelled, a lot longer than he thought it was. It was a bloodied mess, possibly belonged to a Mr Leonard.

He went to the washroom, finding a pair of scissors and began to slice it into smaller pieces, before dropping them into the toilet and flushing them. Oswald didn’t immediately notice that he’d effectively clogged it until he heard the water rushing over the rim.

“Well, _damn_.” Oswald pressed a finger to his temple, rubbing it in circles. He had already broken one rule, and it hadn’t even been an hour since Ed had left. He tried to fix it on his own but was very clearly out of his depth. He let another hour pass, cleaning up the water with whatever towels he could find, before deciding he should call Ed.

There was just the issue he hadn’t been provided with a cell phone number. Calling the precinct directly was out of the question. Oswald sighed, deciding instead to make a sandwich. He opened the fridge, looking for sauce, mildly annoyed he couldn’t immediately find the homemade spicy mustard he could’ve sworn he saw the day before. He forcefully closed the fridge door, resulting in a small piece of paper being dislodged from a magnet and dropping next to his foot.

He picked it up, turning it over and cracking a smile. Obviously Ed wouldn’t have left his house without leaving some way of contacting him.

“ _Are you okay_?” Ed answered on the first ring, whispering.

“What- yes, I’m fine.”

“ _Unless you’re near death, you really shouldn’t call me-_ “

“Your toilet is broken.”

“ _Well, what did you do?”_

“It’s not my fault, you left a piece of evidence behind, and since I can’t leave the apartment, I figured-“

“ _Flushing it down the toilet was your only logical conclusion_?” Ed had raised his voice, before hushing it once more. “ _Did you try jiggling the handle?”_

“No, I’m a total moron. Of course I tried!”

“ _Well, what exactly did you put down it?_ ” Ed seethed, before hearing footsteps behind him and snapping his phone shut, which infuriated Oswald.

“Ed?” He asked as the line went dead. He tried to call again, receiving no answer.

He went back to the washroom, pulling out pieces of the fabric he had forced into it. Eventually once enough of them were removed, the toilet flushed again. Proud of himself, Oswald moved back to the fridge, to create a congratulatory sandwich, only to still be incapable of finding the mustard.

Oswald hit redial on the phone, still in the midst of searching for the jar.

“ _Yes_?” Came an annoyed reply.

“Where is the spicy mustard? You better not have finished…” Oswald made an ‘ _ah_ ’ sound as he finally came across the jar, not listening as Ed was trying to tell him it was time to take his medication. “Nevermind.” He hit end on the call, content with being the one to hang up this time.

* * *

Oswald had been intent on honouring part of what he’d promised Ed, he did sleep, for quite awhile. He awoke to find the sun had already set, and Ed still hadn’t returned home.

He hadn’t received any news yet on Galavan’s conviction, finding when he dialled Gabe’s number there was no answer. He hadn’t even placed the phone back on its charger before it started to ring, Oswald hoping it was Gabe.

“ _Did you take the Vicodin_?” Ed asked.

“Hello to you too,” Oswald replied sarcastically. “Yes, one of them.”

“ _Good. I need you to do something for me_.”

“If that involves leaving this apartment, I will happily oblige.”

“ _No, it doesn’t involve much, but just don’t flush these down the toilet.”_ Ed sighed into the receiver. “ _I need you to destroy Miss Kringle’s glasses.”_

“Aren’t they like a memento to you?” Oswald asked, glancing at them over his shoulder. “Why did you keep her glasses to begin with?”

“ _I told you…_ ” Ed sighed again. “ _I loved Miss Kringle, just get rid of them. Dr Thompkins is suspicious_.”

“Amateurs.” He stated bitterly into the phone after he’d pressed ‘ _end_ ’. He picked up the glasses from the nightstand, beginning to decide what to do with them. His thoughts interrupted when there was a frantic pounding on the metal door.

He wasn’t entirely sure he should answer, sliding the door open anyway, faced with an out of breath Gabe. A sour smile came to his face, “Gabe, when I gave you this address, I was not inviting pop-ins.”

“Galavan’s been let go.”

Oswald’s smile relented, all suppressed grief he earned from finding some relief in this apartment was severed. The eyeglasses in his hand shattered in his lividity, the shards splitting into his palm. “Where is he?”

Gabe handed him the garment bag laced over his arm, and Oswald took it gratefully. Gabe moved into the apartment with a duffle bag in tow, dropping it on the floor next to the bed.

“He left the courthouse, our guys are following the vehicle now.”

Oswald nodded, hastily moving to the bathroom to change. He should’ve left a note, or something that he would be back, but didn’t think of it at the time. He left the pyjamas on the bathroom counter, the garment bag hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door.

It felt invigorating being donned in wool, with a blend of cashmere. He paused at the pain of adorning the overcoat, deciding to leave it behind for another day. He opened the door to the bathroom, letting it smack against the opposite wall, briefly hoping that hadn’t left a mark.

He nodded for Gabe to follow, closing the door to the apartment. It felt like freedom. This was definitely another broken rule.

* * *

Edward was exhausted, it had been fifteen hours since he’d been home. Eleven o’clock in the evening wasn’t an abnormal time for him to come home; he regularly worked long hours but knowing he no longer wished to be there had made it incredibly tiresome.

There was also the matter of his houseguest, who he had been concerned with all day. He had been certain he was going to come home to an empty apartment. Oswald wasn’t in the same shape he had been when Edward had found him in the forest. He could easily recuperate elsewhere.

His mind kicked into alertness when he slid his door open, finding Jim Gordon unconscious on his bed. Oswald sitting on the couch, half a bottle of scotch in his hand.

Edward dropped his jacket, moving to look at Jim’s injuries, before wondering how Oswald had even gotten him into the apartment, let alone the bed.

“An associate of mine assisted,” Oswald recounted the entire story to Edward, who looked at him in disbelief.

“You brought him to my home,” Edward stated, once he’d assured Jim was fit enough not to die in his bed, on the same side he’d left Miss Kringle oh so many nights prior. “I explicitly told you not to leave, Oswald.”

“This was more important.”

“Your associate could’ve just called you when they had apprehended Galavan, why would you put yourself in harm’s way?”

“In hindsight, that could’ve worked too.” Oswald lifted the glass bottle to his lips, letting more of the intoxicant spill down his throat.

Edward moved over towards him, wanting to evaluate whether or not he had started bleeding underneath the suit jacket.

“I didn’t re-injure myself.” Oswald tightened his grip on the bottle and pulling it back as Edward tried to reach for it. “This works better than the Vicodin.”

“Did you follow any of my rules today?”

“No, I _rebelled_.” Oswald drawled out the last word, giving Edward a toothy grin.

Edward rolled his eyes, turning to remove his lab coat, hanging it and his jacket up properly at the door. He collected the strewn pyjamas from the bathroom, folding them neatly into the laundry basket. Yes, it was counterproductive, considering they would just end up in the wash, but it was purely compulsive. He pulled the duffle bag from next to the bed, stuffing it in the closet next to the door.

He’d grown exceedingly aware that Oswald watched him move around the apartment, before settling on the couch seat next to him. Oswald gripped the bottle in his lap, eyes drawn to stare at it instead.

“I find it amusing that on the list of present capable strength, I’m at the top here,” Edward stated, grabbing the bottle again. “And somehow Detective Gordon is at the bottom.”

“Indeed a strange circumstance.” Oswald released his brace on the bottle, letting Ed place it on the floor next to the couch.

“It’s terribly inconvenient,” Edward pointed towards the bed. “But, there is enough room for two, you should get some sleep.”

“Definitely not.” Oswald looked haughtily disdainful towards the occupant on the bed. He swallowed thickly, inching closer to the cushion Ed was seated on. “I’m content here.”

“I’m not nearly as reproachful towards him as you, but one of us should take advantage of having an appropriately sized bed to sleep on.”

“No, thank you,” Oswald muttered, before finding himself compressed against Ed, tilting his head to rest against the crook of the taller male’s shoulder.

Edward sighed, feeling muddled again by warmth. He was too weary to make sense of why Oswald felt the need to be so close. He was too bleary-eyed to mind, even as he rested his cheek against the top of Oswald’s head. He was too worn to be conscious of the bliss he felt, unaware that a smile rose to both their features as they fell dormant.

* * *

Oswald woke to a gentle prodding against his thigh, as he begun to sluggishly come around.

It hadn’t been a long enough rest, and it had been incredibly comfortable despite the irregular position. Far less inebriated, he quickly dislodged himself from Edward, getting up from the couch and flattening his jacket. He glanced at Edward briefly, before rotating on the ball of his left foot and observing their newest guest.

“By my guesstimate, he likely won’t be up for another hour or so,” Edward mentioned, moving to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. “I am going to have to go to work today, though. Will you be able to manage?”

“Manage an injured Jim Gordon? I’m sure it won’t be so difficult.”

Oswald briefly called Gabe while Ed cooked, with a burner cell he had acquired from the duffle bag. He had a thought, while he talked, moving over to Ed’s desk and tearing off a small sheet of paper. He wrote down the burner’s number, handing it to Ed, as he continued to talk with Gabe.

“How could you have lost him?”

“ _I don’t know, boss._ ”

“Well, where’s the sister?”

“ _We followed her to a junkyard, but she hasn’t left. We_ -”

Oswald snapped the phone shut, abruptly ending whatever tirade of excuses Gabe had started. He took up a high-chair next to the kitchen island, waiting for Ed to finish. Oswald enjoyed watching him cook, taking note on things he could probably do if he had to resort to cooking for himself. They ate mostly in silence while waiting for Jim to rise.

Once the dishes were clean, Ed had taken up strumming a familiar tune on the piano while Oswald trotted around the apartment, impatiently.

“He’s going to surface soon, Oswald.” Edward had begun to play in the key of C but could tell it wasn’t having its intended calming effect. “Come here.”

Oswald crossed his arms, walking over to stand next to Ed while he began the tune that would surely bring him serenity. He let Ed perform most of the song, indulging in how pleasant his voice continued to be. They both finished the remainder of the song, ‘ _for my mother looks over me_ ’, glancing at one another before chuckling fondly.

“What the hell?” Jim swung his legs around the bed, completely baffled by how Ed and Oswald were in the same room.

“At last,” Oswald uncrossed his arms, moving towards him. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so good,” Jim groaned, peering around him to look at Ed. “Nygma?”

“Hi.” Ed returned with a smile.

Oswald laughed, placing his hands in his trouser's pockets. “Long story. He’s a friend.”

“A friend?” Jim asked, in disbelief.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Oswald leaned forward, tone acidic. “No thanks needed, saving your life and all.”

“Yeah, thanks, I guess.” Jim pressed a hand to his jaw, vague memory of Oswald smacking him repeatedly, returning.

“No, _really_. What are friends for?” Oswald followed Jim as he rose from the bed, canting further into the apartment. “You got beat pretty bad, that Galavan is a _pistol_ , isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Oh, you’re free to go, of course, Jim.” Oswald pointed towards the door. “Desperate fugitive from the law, though you be. But I beg of you, sit and consider. You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan. A passion, if you will. If there was ever a time for us to work together, now is that time.”

Edward checked his watch, knowing he would likely be late to work, but couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see Oswald interact with someone else. Jim seemed to agree rather reluctantly, excusing himself to the washroom once he said yes. Oswald looked at Edward, victorious smile and all.

“I suppose I won’t enforce any rules before leaving,” Edward mentioned, grabbing his lab coat from its hook.

“If you prefer I move to another location, all you have to do is ask.”

“No, I’d rather you stay here.”

“Once this is done, there is a chance I won’t be back.”

It was the certainty in Oswald’s statement that left Edward feeling completely distressed.

“J-just don’t make too much of a mess,” Edward demanded, facing the door.

Edward felt a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn. He hadn’t time to think before Oswald wrapped his arms around him, grip tighter than he’d ever felt. Edward, a little shocked at the affection, cautiously returned it. It ended far too abruptly. Oswald, looking away in embarrassment, ran a finger underneath his nose, as some nervous tick to ally himself.

Oswald opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. Ed gave him a smile, as if understanding what he might have meant, and took his leave from the apartment before he could try again.

He’d be eternally grateful for all of Ed’s patience. His gentleness had been conducive to Oswald getting to this point. He wasn’t good at expressing gratitude, most of the time it came out with an acrimonious tone. The more he functioned in a sardonic state, the better it was to maintain his authority, but the harder it was to find compassion.

He didn’t need to be in any specific state with Ed, it had been a _change_. A change that was doleful in nature as he didn’t know how the next day’s worth of events would impact it.

* * *

It didn’t take very long for them to begin preparations for what was to come, Gabe had reigned in a few men, but more importantly acquired enough firepower, protective gear, and ammo to make a mess of Ed’s apartment. Oswald had to refrain from making comments as present occupants began flinging their coats around the room. Hours passed while they waited for news of Galavan’s whereabouts.

His phone dinged from a text message, ‘ _Lee Thompkins incoming, -E_ ’.

Sure enough, there was a knock at the door, Lee found her way to Jim and begun desperately trying to convince him to leave with her.

“You want to attack the mayor with the help of a depraved sociopath. That’s not crazy?” Lee continued on her rant.

“I can hear you.” Oswald pointed out.

“Shh! Don’t speak.” Lee put her hand up dismissively towards him.

Oswald felt a mixture of respect and annoyance towards Lee’s brass, adjusting the Remington against his shoulder as she continued to plead with Jim.

“I’m pregnant.” She said, effectively halting everyone in the room.

Oswald titled his head back with a sigh. _Of course_. He pulled the burner phone out of his pocket as it vibrated, desperately hoping there wasn’t more bad news.

‘ _A butler, a cop, a fox, incoming. -E’_

He barely made out the fact that meant three additional guests.

Jim had asked if they could leave once the sun was set, in the transportation Oswald had arranged for Lee. Unenthusiastically, he walked them to the vehicle once the time had come.

“Good-bye, Miss Thompkins. Please don’t think _too_ badly of me.” Oswald held out his hand to shake hers. “We are what we are.”

Lee chuckled, “that’s true. Goodbye, Mr Cobblepot.”

Oswald heard the squealing of tires as the building door closed, motioning for Gabe to see if it was anything pertinent. They observed as Harvey Bullock, Alfred Pennyworth, and the third gentleman Oswald had decrypted as likely being Mr. Fox rushed over to Jim’s vehicle. Whatever exchange occurred resulted in the four of them running towards them.

The apartment was soon occupied again by Jim Gordon, along with the three new combatants, although he discovered Lucius Fox wouldn’t be accompanying them. They began to put on the Kevlar vests, arguing over the aim of the evening.

There was also the issue of not having an entrance, but a voice picked up from an open window.

“I know a way,” Selina stated, earning a confused look from Fox.

“Who is she?” Fox asked.

“Fox, that’s Cat.” Harvey wagged a finger between them. “Cat, Fox.”

“You know a way in?” Jim asked her.

“Yeah, I know a way in, Gordon,” Selina replied defensively.

“How do we know you haven’t stitched us up?” Alfred questioned distrustfully. “I mean, you’ve switched sides often enough. How do we know that you’re not working with Galavan now?”

“How do I know you’re not a Martian in a rubber suit?” Selina retorted.

“I trust her.” Jim convinced. “You’re in Cat. Thanks for your help. Grab a vest and let’s go.”

“People, surely we should have a backup strategy, given the strong possibilities of _failure_.” Fox tried, falling on deaf ears.

“Au contraire, Mr Fox. Failure is not an option!” Oswald reassured.

“What he said.” Jim agreed.

“As you like.” Fox let go of the topic as they continued to prepare.

Oswald waited until everyone had left the apartment, giving a last glance at the mess being left there. He tore more from the sheet he’d used earlier, hastily scrawling, and taping it to the fridge. Before he could be tempted to tear it off, he left, running into Fox as he walked back towards the apartment.

“What are you doing?” Oswald asked, moving the shotgun on his shoulder to rest in his arms.

“I figured I could help clean up Mr Nygma’s apartment since we left it in such disarray. It’s the least I could do.”

Oswald raised a brow, but nodded, brushing passed him towards the elevator.

* * *

Edward came home to an empty apartment, but thankfully not a disorganized one. He dropped his coat on its appropriate hanger, placed a bag on the couch, and made his way to the fridge. He nearly collapsed of fright as Mr Fox came out of his washroom.

“Wh-why are you still here?” Edward said, clutching a hand to his chest.

“Well-“ Fox lifted the garbage bag in his hand, filled with ammo boxes, plastic, and strewn clothing that hadn’t been picked up. “I apologize for scaring you, but since I’m not prone to violence, I figured I could assist here. I do have to be going though, I can see this plan of theirs failing, and I have an idea.”

Edward watched him leave, a riddle coming to mind as he left the apartment. Edward had been begrudged that this stranger-gentleman had figured out his riddle earlier that led them to his home.

“I turn around once, what is out will not get in, I turn around again, what is in will not get out, what am I?” Edward asked as Fox pressed the ‘ _down_ ’ button to the elevator.

“That one-“ Fox paused, thinking. “I’m not sure, Mr Nygma. Good night.”

Satisfied that he hadn’t been trumped twice in one day, Edward slid the door shut to his apartment, making his way to the fridge. He pulled the note from its door, idling first at Oswald’s calligraphy, before smiling at the message.

‘ _We still have much to discuss, my dear friend. -O’_

* * *

The knocking was light, having Edward on his feet in seconds.

Edward slid the door open to his apartment, shocked to find Oswald standing there, a twisted grin plastered to his face, and two bottles of wine in his left hand. The fur trim of his coat was coated with specks of blood, and Oswald’s cheeks featured even more of the cherry liquid. He pressed the glass bottles into Edward’s arms.

Not waiting for an invitation, Oswald trotted into the apartment like it was home, dropping the large coat next to the garbage bin, knowing Edward wouldn’t let him keep it. He removed his suit jacket, carefully laying it over a dining room chair. He hadn’t noticed his white dress shirt was drenched in blood, not until Ed was at his side far too hastily, pulling at his left arm and scrutinizing his right.

“What did I tell you about excessive movement?” Edward hissed.

“To be fair, you said limited movement around the apartment. Didn’t say anything about outside.” Oswald replied animatedly. “Theo Galavan is _dead_. Sealed with an umbrella down his throat.”

“Well, now that you’ve had your ‘ _poetic justice’_ , we can be more attentive to your injury as comeuppance.”

Edward continued to hold an expression of disappointment towards Oswald’s evening antics, despite the ridiculous _pout_ he earned from the smaller male. He choked back laughter, pulling Oswald determinedly towards the bathroom.

“I can’t stay here long.” Oswald had been silent as Ed repaired the mess he’d made out of his arm. “Gordon, Bullock, Thompkins, they all know I was here. I can’t keep hiding.”

Edward had made this deduction when he had come back to an empty apartment. It was maddening, Edward wanted more time. Oswald wasn’t the best guest, but there was comfort with him. A threshold of comfort he didn’t think was possible with anyone.

“If you leave here you’ll be arrested in no time. Captain Barnes won’t let anyone sleep until he sees you behind bars for killing the Mayor of Gotham.”

“I wasn’t the one who killed him.” Oswald recounted the story in detail with Edward, expressing the utmost bitterness towards Jim taking away the one thing he had wanted most of the ordeal. “He deserved to suffer first, and it should’ve been me that killed him.”

Edward nodded his head slowly, in agreement. His thoughts were moving at breakneck speed digesting the information about the circumstances. Jim Gordon killed a man in cold blood. He was just as monstrous as any of them, just as volatile as those he swore to lock away.

“Then you’re innocent. They have nothing to charge you for other than-“

“The giant case against me for everything else I’ve done? What harm is there to add another high-profile murder to it as well? My name will be on everyone’s lips until the next big GCPD threat.”

“What good are your ambitions if you’re in Blackgate?”

“I’m not going to Blackgate.” Oswald laughed coldly.

Edward visibly whitened, hands frozen against the last stitch on Oswald’s arm. “You can’t go to Arkham.”

Arkham Asylum was an infernal fortress of nightmarish proportions. They’d tear Oswald apart on an emotional level that he clearly thought he was impervious to. Edward knew better, and it was more terrifying to him than Oswald going to Blackgate.

“In Blackgate I don’t stand a chance to appeal, I’ll have to serve out my sentence. If I play my cards right in Arkham, they’ll release me for good behaviour.”

“There’s only been three convicted murderers in the last three decades who have been released from Arkham. You’re gambling with your vanity.”

“I’ll be back in Gotham in no time.”

“What if you’re not? What if they strip you of everything that makes you whole? They send people to Arkham to _hide_ them, to treat them with therapy unfit for the average population.” Edward finished bandaging the wound, placing all the unused material onto the counter.

“I _know_.” Oswald pressed his left hand to his forehead, closing his eyes, and wishing he could find an end to the conversation. They were diametrically opposed, but he was left with very few options. He was doomed to be apprehended. He couldn’t leave Gotham, it was against his very being. The longer he stayed in Edward’s apartment, the higher the chance he’d get tossed into an institution too for abetting a criminal.

Edward found himself staring at the back of Oswald’s left hand, eying the line of a faint scar. He didn’t know where _that_ injury had come from, it wasn’t new, and he wanted the story behind it. He wanted to know everything, even the minute details of Oswald’s life. He wanted to be privy to all of it. There was no justification for it, other than that he needed be at the epicentre of Gotham’s terror. He wanted to continue to learn how to monopolize his influence on Oswald. He wanted to gain his ultimate trust, to see him for everything he encompassed, anything that made him who he was.

Edward couldn’t do that if Oswald’s intelligence was threatened by an institution that strived to rob people of whatever made them impertinent. Edward pulled the hand from the other’s forehead, placing it in his against Oswald’s thigh. He rubbed his thumb in circles overtop of Oswald’s hand, earning a cautious look from green hues.

“Detective Gordon’s wrongdoing isn’t _your_ burden to carry.”

“It’s a means to an end.” Oswald placed his other hand over the top of Ed’s, mostly in an attempt to stop the soothing nature of Ed’s ministrations.

Edward breathed in deeply, retracting his hand. He rose from the bathroom tile, feeling the ache in his legs from kneeling for so long. He left the bathroom briefly, returning with a set of solid deep purple satin pyjamas. He handed them to Oswald, earning a raised eyebrow.

“These are different.”

“I thought you might want to wear something your size,” Edward explained, with slight embarrassment that he had gone out of his way to shop for something Oswald might not have even been there to receive.

“Thank you, my friend.” Oswald took them with a true, _genuine_ smile. His appreciation might have been a slip, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t elated by Ed’s chronic affability.

It had been the first time Edward had seen him smile so bright, _towards_ him, _because_ of him. It was positively unsettling. It felt like a fist had been shoved down his throat. He excused himself from the washroom, allowing Oswald privacy to change. He leaned against the door, recounting everything that had led to this point.

A point where he was going to affirm his position on Oswald _not_ turning himself in, ensure he didn’t leave the apartment to do so. Edward needed more _time_ to learn from someone who saw him as an equal – a _friend_. Oswald had resources and capabilities Edward did not. He had an endless pit of knowledge that was only attainable from the source itself.

Edward found it hadn’t been hard to convince him to stay.

When Oswald had emerged from the washroom, mildly confounded by Edward being directly in front of the door, there’d be no argument. His only ask was that Edward refrain from sleeping on the couch, and allow them to alternate nights. Edward found himself agreeing, _reluctantly_. It earned another smile, effectively leaving its’ intended recipient charmed.

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was sweet decadence dipped in despair and misery, and Edward was repeatedly obtuse to the growing burn he felt in the chasm of his heart.


	5. Immortals

_“Where are you going to go?” Jim asked, refusing to look at whatever Oswald had made a show of his umbrella._

_“That’s hardly your concern.” Oswald snipped, searching for wherever Gabe had the car idling._

_“You can’t continue to involve Ed.”_

_“That is_ also _hardly your concern.”_

_“You only see him as being useful at the moment, but I care for him. He’s not a part of your… he can’t be a part of this.” Jim gripped Oswald’s shoulder as he continued to avoid the conversation. “What could you possibly have in common with him?”_

_Oswald reflexed immediately, shifting away from him. “Moments ago you killed a man in cold blood, you are shockingly sentimental now. Is that remorse, friend? If I must entertain this subject, it’s worth noting I tend not to harbour resentment for someone who saved my life.”_

_“Even so, Ed may be strange, but he’s on a whole other level compared to you. He’s a gentle soul.” Jim leered, tone threatening. “Don’t. Involve. Him.”_

_“Or_ what _Jim? Going to make some failed attempt to come to his rescue too?” Oswald laughed, eyes landing on a Buick that he’d told Gabe to arrive in. “He’s on a whole other level compared to_ you _too. He and I are more alike than you know.”_

_“What is that supposed to mean?” Jim pulled at Oswald’s shoulder again._

_“Oh Jim," Oswald sneered."Still so naïve in your quest to rid all evil, yet you still can’t see that you are part of the infection. How many are you at now? Barker, Galavan… and still so intent on ensuring the sanctity of others. Are you worried you might lose your best forensic scientist? Seems your concern is only in his worth to the GCPD.”_

_“He’s a good person.”_

_“I know what kind of person he is.” The double-entendre went over Jim’s head._

_“Then promise me you won’t go back there-“ Jim’s grasp tightened on Oswald’s shoulder, earning a scowl as he shrugged his shoulder out of the detective’s hold._

_“If I must tell you one more time how_ much _that’s not your concern, I will withdraw my umbrella from Galavan and shove it down your throat next.”_

* * *

Oswald picked up the glass decanter from the floor, not bothering to pour the wine properly into a glass before tipping it to his lips. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, day seven of living in an enforced shelter. He sauntered towards the bookshelf, having the inexplicable urge to reorganize the whole thing to see how Ed would react. Oswald grinned at the thought of Ed being so undoubtedly flustered at the disorder, yet likely being incapable of berating him.

Staying in Ed’s apartment was _exhausting_ – from the lack of any diversions. Oswald was used to the constant titillation of Gotham, and all its extremes. Now, he only had the alcohol Ed grudgingly bought when Oswald had refused to continue taking the Vicodin, and a daily paper to remedy the lacklustre stories Ed brought home from the GCPD. He was indeed the top of Captain Barnes’ _shit_ list. From what Ed delineated, no one had spilt the beans on Oswald’s previous whereabouts. However, it would only be a matter of time, no doubt Barnes had all the officers working overtime, and Harvey Bullock was known to have zero patience for unpaid labour.

There was also the matter Ed worked atrociously long days, it had Oswald feeling isolated. He couldn’t reach out to any of his known associates, couldn’t leave the apartment, couldn’t even look out the damn window for fear someone would see him. He didn’t know how much more of this he could handle. At the very least, if he turned himself in, or just _let_ them catch him, life would be able to continue. He’d move on to the next chapter, to _Arkham_.

He breathed in deeply. Arkham brought to mind how distraught Ed always looked when they talked about the asylum. It was the only play Oswald had. Of course, he didn’t _want_ it to be the only plan, but other than leaving Gotham entirely, it was all he could do. He just wasn’t sure _why_ Ed was so concerned, he had decided at some point during his many hours of seclusion it was the loss of Oswald’s companionship that likely worried Ed most; that whatever teaching arrangement they might’ve had would be severed by the uncertainty of Oswald’s conviction.

Amongst the hours in isolation, he had also grown to detest other aspects of Ed’s long shifts, for both _entirely_ selfish and yet compassionate reasons. There was a level of desideratum that tended to ripple through Oswald in the morning: when he’d watch Ed meander through his routine, when he’d check on Oswald’s wound like it was normal morning activity, and then when Ed always seemed to hesitate before leaving the apartment.

Sometimes Oswald pretended to be asleep just to see if any of it was different, or if it was all just how Ed functioned. The hesitation was always the same, from the shared avidity to have the time to learn more of one another, and Ed coming to a peak of intolerance for his work at the GCPD. Oswald had listened on more than one occasion to Ed’s dismay for the inadequacies of those he worked with, and also of those who were attempting to take Oswald’s place. How Butch had risen to the seat with sheer uncouthness and was subpar in comparison to his predecessor.

Yet, Oswald was always more intrigued to know of what Ed was going to cook for them that evening, or how _his_ day had been. The hours they shared were few and in-between, and Oswald wasn’t sure why it was so important to hear more of Ed’s day as opposed to the events unfolding in Gotham. Perhaps he was suffering from some variation of Stockholm Syndrome, he mused to himself. He really did need to leave, but he couldn’t will himself to do so.

He swapped the decanter from his left hand to his right, misjudging the weakness he still felt as his arm spasmed, the decanter slipping from his fingers and shattering when it landed. Oswald stared at the spoiled red wine he had just waited two hours for, refraining from using expletives.

The more time Oswald spent in the apartment, with Ed, the more he planted roots. It was a frightening notion, but the idea of not having to worry about _anything_ , being doted on, was _pleasant._ It was unbecoming of Gotham’s kingpin, but Oswald wasn’t the Penguin right now. He was still recovering from grief, still rehabilitating from his wound, and was finding ease in his progression having someone he could (potentially) rely on. For so long he’d only had his mother to care for him, and following her end, it had been a short stretch to find-

“Looky here, you’ve got your own wanted poster! _Oswald_ , what did you do?”

Oswald hadn’t realized he was still staring at the mess he’d made of Ed’s hardwood floors, hadn’t even heard Ed come home, so consumed in his apprehension.

“I- I’m…” Oswald reached down to begin picking up the pieces of broken glass from the floor, a rather inane method to express remorse for breaking Ed’s decanter. “I… don’t-“

Edward creased his brows, finally found himself able to close the door to the apartment before rushing over to him, squatting next to the male as he continued to try to pick up the glass. Edward forcefully took Oswald’s hands into his own, standing from his position, and raising Oswald in the same motion.

“What are you even trying to do?” Edward asked worriedly, turning Oswald’s palms over to shake the glass from them. He turned them back over, palms upwards, analyzing them for cuts. Having received no response, Edward looked up, tilting his head slightly, meeting the other’s eerie vacant stare. “Are you- Oswald, do you hear me?”

Still receiving no reply, Edward deduced the cuts were entirely superficial and began trying to pull at Oswald’s wrists away from the mess. The male stood stock-still, with a surprising amount of strength holding him in place. Edward’s worry grew, trying to understand what was wrong. Had he relapsed into grief? Had he been contacted by one of his men with bad news? Edward loosened his grip on Oswald’s wrists, moving his hands up to rest on either side of Oswald’s arms. He leaned forwards, to be eye-level with the male, only to encounter the same unoccupied stare. Edward shook him lightly, hoping to rouse Oswald, or at least strike some emotion from him.

“What’s wrong?” Edward pleaded.

Anytime Edward had come home, he’d been received with polite smiles. Oswald had been on the mend, and there’d been nothing to indicate _why_ he looked like he did right then. He shook the shorter male again, more urgently, still receiving no change in demeanour.

“ _Please,_ Os-“

“I _miss_ her.” Oswald finally choked out, his eyes focusing on Edward’s. He lifted his hands into fists, pressing them against Edward’s chest. “She deserved _better_.”

Edward felt so utterly useless in that moment, a pit growing in his throat from the way Oswald looked at him so desperately as if he should have all the answers in the world. Edward didn’t, he didn’t know how to handle this. He had _tried_ so many times. He was out of his depth. “Is… is- is there someone more equipped for this you’d like me to get for you?” Edward asked, earning a confused look in reply. “I- I just don’t know how to help you anymore, Oswald. I’m sorry.”

“I have _no one_.” Oswald breathed, bringing his tearful gaze to rest on his fists against Ed’s chest. He opened his hands, tangling his fingers in the cotton of Ed’s sweater-vest, and gripping forcefully. “This _colour_ is an atrocity.”

“I hadn’t taken that into consideration when I dressed this morning.” Edward bemused, allowing Oswald to continue to make further comments of how the olive-yellow colour was an _absolute eyesore_ and that Edward needed to _learn the importance of coordination_. He allowed the comments to continue until Oswald fell silent again, grip loosening from Edward’s clothes and arms falling to their respective sides.

He looked tearful again, and it physically pained Edward to be so inept. The only thing that came to mind was an ill-timed riddle, and he thought it inauspicious to even say. If there was one thing Edward lacked, it was self-control during inexperienced moments, and this was another prime example.

“ _This thing all things devours;_  
_Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_  
_Gnaws iron, bites steel;_  
_Grinds hard stones to meal;_  
_Slays king, ruins town,_  
_And beats high mountain down_.”

Oswald shook his head lightly, closing his eyes and rubbing away the remains of dried tears into his palm. “Ed, are you serious-“

“Y-Yes, that was distasteful- I just… you wouldn’t-“

“Time,” Oswald replied irately, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze wandering to the red mess still at his feet, staining the floors. “I haven’t come across Tolkien in your collection.”

“They were borrowed by a friend who didn’t seem too keen on returning them.”

“That would be called _theft_.”

“We were thirteen. My parents moved us shortly after, and I just never retrieved them.” They fell into silence again, as Edward recalled why he had used that specific riddle. “You will always _miss_ her, Oswald. I don’t believe that feeling goes away.”

“From your vast knowledge of your grief from killing Miss Kringle.” Oswald bit his tongue too late, but it hadn’t hindered Ed from continuing.

“I don’t even- No, this is my working theory for _you_ , specifically.” Edward was trying to be mindful of Oswald’s temper, although it had been a week since he’d seen it flare.

All their interactions had been delightful with one another since Oswald’s had returned from killing Galavan; even though there were many constructive critiques for pretty much everything Edward did. It provided him with the amused recognition Oswald was giving him his undivided attention, and Edward couldn’t find it within himself to be even slightly insulted.

“The grief is transient, to an extent.” Edward continued, ruminating over the direction he wanted to take the explanation. “In due _time_ , you’ll be able to look at the memory of your mother without feeling as you do now. Don’t run from it, embrace the crucible. It’s not weak for you to feel the anguish, it’s just simply... as you’ve said… _a means to an end._ ”

Oswald deliberated over Ed’s _theory_ , gaze still forced towards the floor. He chewed on his bottom lip, the affliction of knowing Ed was _right_ , again, distressed him. “I’m not fond of how it seems to creep up at random and thrusts me into a state of culpability.”

“You’ll have to adapt.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”

“I’ve already answered that,” Ed stepped towards him, the glass breaking further under the heels of his shoes. He lifted Oswald’s chin with a finger, commanding him to look at him. The warm smile on Ed’s face melted his dampened mood – the effect on Oswald’s breathing instantaneous as he unfolded his arms, transfixed. “You just need time.”

Oswald’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling overcome with exhaustion. Whether it was the delayed effect of the alcohol he’d spent all afternoon drinking through, before focusing on the wine, or the way his heart stopped when Ed stood _too_ close, he couldn’t be certain. He nearly stumbled forward but was met with the warm wall that was Ed’s frame.

“ _Time_ ,” Oswald muttered as he felt the enveloping arms of his gracious host. He could feel the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, but he resolved to contain them. He was vulnerable and exposed in these moments, but his trust in Ed grew with every kind word. He returned the embrace, arms wrapped tightly around the taller male’s waist.

Oswald’s entire body shook from the dread that if he let go, all of this would dissipate. That perhaps all of this had been a figment of his imagination, that he’d been killed in place of his mother, as was intended.

“It should’ve been _me._ ” Oswald gripped the bottom of Ed’s sweater. “I told him to kill _me_ instead of her.”

“It was senseless.” Ed soothed, fingers lacing through raven locks delicately, his other arm wrapped around Oswald’s shoulder, attempting to steady him. “You’re the one who’s here, you can’t change that. Your mother wouldn’t change it. It’s not _fair_ , and it doesn’t make it _okay_ , nothing will.”

“Except time.” Oswald lamented, still clutching Ed’s sweater with such ferocity, certain that if he let go, the comfort would ultimately end, and Oswald would be left alone; despite Ed’s constant affirmation that he was _not going anywhere._

It’s not until day twenty-six that Oswald refrains from relying so much on Ed’s physical contact, recognizing for what it was – a debility – regaining the frigid disposition he needed to be able to face what was inescapably coming.

But it was only day seven and Oswald’s vision was still so constricted.

* * *

It’s day **ten** when they talk about Jim Gordon, sitting across from one another at the dining table.

“Why do you think Detective Gordon wants to change Gotham so much?” Ed brought up, ravelling Pad Thai into his chopsticks.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘ _l’appel du vide_?” Oswald asked him, surprised when Ed shook his head ‘ _no’_ in reply. “It translates vaguely to ‘ _call of the void_ ’. Jim chases his own destruction, albeit entirely subconsciously. He _acts_ on impulse, constantly. He places blame on himself for all the wrong-doings that have occurred during his watch. Things he thinks could’ve been prevented if he had been more aware. It always ends with him in scenarios he should be dead from.”

“Do you assume him being incarcerated would push him over an edge?”

“Not while Miss Thompkins is carrying their child.”

“He doesn’t deserve your protection.” Edward placed a pensive finger to his lips.

“Maybe.” Oswald tightened his grip on the glass in front of him, bringing it to his lips, enjoying the burn down the back of his throat. “He spared my life.”

“You’ve already repaid that debt ten times over.”

“I like to think there’s a particular value to someone saving one’s life that might never make the debt truly repaid.” Oswald rotated the glass held in his hand, swirling the contents inside.

“By that logic, I fall under your short roll-call of personal rescuers,” Ed smirked, enjoying the undignified glare Oswald shot him from across the table. “I feel like I’ve been and _could be_ a much better ally than Detective Gordon ever has, so I’ll be withdrawing from this investment for quite some time.”

“You have some gall.” Oswald spat, with a smile that was indicative of no actual venom to his tone. There was no denial, Oswald pointedly staring at the bottom of his now-empty glass. He’d known for quite a few days now that there’d been an established truth to it, and he was sure Ed didn’t need to be convinced of it.

* * *

It’s day **thirteen** when Jim Gordon approaches Edward alone for the first time since the night of Galavan’s murder. He ensures there is no one wandering towards the lab, or inside of it before beginning his pitch. 

“Ed.” Jim starts, his name in place of a hello.

“How may I be of assistance, Detective?” Edward beamed politely.

Jim seemed to be trying to decide if he wanted to know the answer to this, “have you heard anything about where Penguin might be?”

“Not since you all left my apartment.”

“He hasn’t contacted you since?”

“Not a peep from the formerly marred bird.”

“There are better friends to have in Gotham, Ed.” Jim tried but was interrupted when the door opened to the lab, Lee pulling him away. He found himself concerned over Ed’s affectionate choice of verbiage but would need to revisit it.

* * *

It’s day **fifteen** when Ed comes home with a lot of textbooks, planting them on his desk and instantly diving into them. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oswald for nearly three hours after getting home. Oswald periodically checks on him, at one point taking a moment to tilt over so he could read the title of some of the books Ed is consumed with.

‘ _Rehabilitation of the Hand and Upper Extremities, Morden Musculoskeletal Physiotherapy, The Knee: Clinical Applications, Orthopedic Survival Guides_ ’, there was also a binder propped open with laminated copies of anatomical charts. Oswald’s face flushed.

He decided on attempting to cook for Ed. It was the least he could for someone who had just spent twelve hours at the precinct and came back home to spend an entire evening devoted to learning whatever he could about Oswald’s injuries.

Oswald couldn’t even begin to comprehend _why_ someone would _want_ to be so selfless.

The moment he opens one the drawers to retrieve a frying pan, he's startled to find Ed taking it out of his hands. Ed’s fingers skim over his, uncontrollably sending a shiver through Oswald.

“As much as I appreciate your attempts at cooking, I’ll prepare dinner.” Ed smiled warmly, not looking the least bit drained from his day.

Oswald took up his perch at the kitchen island, intent that at _some_ point he’d be able to reciprocate all of Ed’s kindness, even if it wasn't in his nature yet.

* * *

It’s day **seventeen** when Captain Barnes approaches Edward at the precinct. Familiar file folder in hand, dropping it on Edward’s desk.

“Yes?” Edward asks, after his momentary startled stupor.

“I need your assurance that when we apprehend Oswald Cobblepot, you’ll be able to testify as an expert witness.”

“That’s- I don’t think- With all due respect, sir, I’m not equipped to handle being cross-examined in a court setting.” Edward gazed at the folder as Barnes leaned down on it with both hands. Edward looked up to see the flash of a microexpression cross the captain’s features – _contempt_. Edward cleared his throat, adjusting the tie at his throat. “I just mean- I’ve never been a witness before, Dr Thompkins is well-versed, whereas I… am not.”

“It’s never too late to learn new tricks.”

“I am doubtful that Harvey Dent will see it that way. S-such a high-profile case shouldn’t be used as a training opportunity. It might garner the wrong attention when I fuddle with my words.”

Barnes sighed, coming to an understanding with Edward’s counter-argument. “I suppose you have a point. The next one, then.”

Edward desperately hoped there wouldn’t be a _next one_. The captain took his leave, allowing him to relish in his analysis of Barnes’ microexpression. He’d discussed the skill the night prior with Oswald, indulgent in their limited amount of time.

 _“How would you describe your modus operandi?”_ _Ed asked, watching as Oswald raised a brow._

_“With the way you frame your questions, I wouldn’t be surprised if our chats end up on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.” Oswald jested._

_“It’s the only means for me to get answers to particular questions. You don’t generally offer anything up unless I’m specific.”_

_“Seems unorthodox to hand you all the keys to the castle.” Oswald drummed his fingers on the couch’s armrest, crossing his legs, his foot bobbing as he considered how to respond. “It’s important to be omniscient.”_

_Edward waited for an elaboration but received none. The conversation moved into microexpressions, how it takes anywhere from one-fifteenth or one-twenty-fifth of a second to catch them, but they could make a difference of life or death. It was a small piece of knowledge, something Edward might have learned on his own, but this prompted him to be more cognizant of his own expressions. If they were so involuntary and brief, he’d need to develop a means to fake them._

It did make Edward wonder now, though. If microexpressions were a subject so important for Oswald to share, why did it seem as if he rarely put a precedence to hide his own? It also struck Edward with the notion that perhaps there’d been more masks in place than he realized. After all, he didn’t have ‘ _all the keys_ ’ and that couldn’t stand. He needed to know it all, to _have_ it all.

* * *

It’s day **nineteen** when Ed asks Oswald to prop his legs up across his lap.

Oswald is floundering as a reply, and Ed looks at him like he’d just made the most _normal_ request in the world and doesn’t understand his confusion.

“I want to try something.” Ed tries, placing a tentative hand against Oswald’s bad leg, as if that was meant to be some sort of thorough explanation for the ask. “Something I learned the other day.”

Oswald recalls the books Ed had spent an entire evening reading. He’d also been certain Ed hadn’t slept that night, and in the morning the books were gone. Oswald carefully swings both legs around from the floor to the couch cushions, pushing his back up against the armrest, and flinching as he settles his legs across Ed’s lap.

“We will work on your upper arm, but I wanted to try this first.” Ed started, pressing a hand to Oswald’s clothed knee. “There are seven trillion nerves in the human body. For example say you having a pinched supraclavicular nerve, which is in your neck, it can cause numbness or pain along your whole arm into your ring and pinky finger. I don’t have the means to map out exactly how your injured knee has impacted you, but we can try to see what this might do for you in way of pain.”

Oswald nodded, thoughts muddled as Ed pressed into his joint, sending an electric current of pain through his entire body. His back arched, head tilting back against the armrest.

“A little pain is okay, but if it doesn’t stop-“ Edward removed his hand, resting it against Oswald’s shin.

“It’s fine,” Oswald stated, throwing an arm across his forehead, eyes clenched closed.

Ed began the ministrations again, continuing to chatter of the things he learned, not that he needed Oswald to understand any of it. He just wanted to create a distraction from the discomfort. “-radiofrequency neurotomy is something you could consider. They use a heated needle on damaged nerves, to disrupt the pain signals that travel to your brain. I want to try taping your knee to see if that does anything, but only if you’re up for it. As far as your upper arm goes, we need to work on the glenohumeral and scapular muscles to ensure full functionality. Any sort of nerve injury or severe trauma to the body normally requires sensorimotor re-education. Use of the injured extremity, like what I tried to warn you against, can prevent full recovery. I want to make sure we optimize muscle physiology and biomechanics. Your reinnervated muscles will be weaker than your uninjured ones. Ideally, we only want to do short exercises that include slow-onset muscle contraction. As strength improves, we can advance to exercises against gravity and add more resistance.” Ed continues, as he kneads against the medial ligament, before moving to the lateral.

“You make it sound like we have months at our disposal,” Oswald whispered, earning a saddened glance. “Skip the tape, it doesn’t bode well for my skin.”

Edward recognized that he _had_ been discerning there would be more time. Every morning, he had to fight himself to leave; he preferred to stay back and add more minutes to the clock. He’d been so on edge the last number of weeks, troubled that he’d come home and this would all be concluded. There was no contract between them, except for Edward’s hospitality, and he understood that he couldn’t keep Oswald there indefinitely. He shifted on the couch, lightly pushing Oswald’s legs away to indicate he’d finished with his attempt at therapeutic remedies. Edward was a little lost in his thoughts as Oswald stood from the couch, pacing around slowly with significantly less difficulty.

“It does feel like less of a strain,” Oswald confirmed, sitting back into the cushions.

"It's unfortunately not a permanent fix." Edward regained a smile to his lips, feigning cheerfulness from the thoughts of their inevitable separation. He lifted from the couch, asking Oswald to lay down vertically along it.

“It’s called nerve flossing,” Edward clarified, recognizing the scepticism Oswald had as he arranges himself as asked. Edward grabs a small stool from the kitchen, finding it the perfect height next to the couch. He sits on his knees and pulls Oswald’s injured arm to rest on it, elbow on its center.

“It’s meant to gauge where you are in the spectrum of nerve damage. When I rotate it outwards-“ Edward does so, pulling at Oswald’s wrist and placing pressure as he rotates the arm from next to his shoulder, moving it at a downward angle until it’s resting next to Oswald’s stomach. He releases it after a couple of seconds, continuing with his explanation. “It’s meant to feel like a stretch, but if there’s a pull that is causing pain, you’ll feel it somewhere along the way. If I’m able to go this far without you feeling pain, there might not be any damage at all, just general muscle weakness.”

“Any discomfort was relieved the moment you let go.” Oswald bent his knee against the pseudo-physio-table of a couch. He stretched out his fingers, feeling them crack as he clenched a fist. “Admittedly, the strength isn’t the same, but it has improved.”

“It helps that you haven’t bludgeoned anyone in a while, too.”

“Depends on your definition of therapeutic.”

Ed nods knowingly, moving into topics of exercises Oswald can do even when he’s alone to help with strengthening and mobility. Oswald listens as intently as he can, thoughts resounding of how he still doesn’t understand how someone can have such a charitable disposition. He remembers Jim’s warning, echoing in his mind as does the awareness he could be the destruction of Ed’s guileless nature.

There’s also the capricious concept of a path for Ed that he was sure Ed hadn’t even considered. He knew it would be like stripping someone of their entire being, and building in place a whole reawakened identity. Someone to be fearful of, someone to demand respect, and someone to keep Oswald grounded through all the transgressions along the way. The idea was exhilarating.

* * *

It’s day **twenty** when Oswald is abruptly pulled from his slumber, landing on the hardwood flooring next to the couch. He lifted himself to his knees with his left arm, feeling the ache in his bad knee as he grasped the side of the couch and lifted himself back into it. He glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed across from him, _2:43 AM_ in neon green blinking back at him. He now regretted forcing Ed to sleep in the bed for the first time in three weeks. Oswald couldn’t stand the dark circles under Ed’s eyes anymore.

“We should swap.”

Oswald should’ve heard the rustle of the bedsheets, but he’d been preoccupied resuming a comfortable sitting position on the couch.

“Go back to sleep, Ed.”

“Part of my issue with sleeping is that you don’t stop talking during the night.” Ed sounded like a mix of delirious and aggravated.

Oswald should’ve also heard as Ed’s bare feet met the hardwood floor, but he’d been trying to recall why he’d fallen off the couch to begin with to prompt this. He’d seldom remembered most of this dreams lately, which was a relief, but he knew what they normally contained. “If my unconscious talking is such a burden, I can find alternative-“

Ed was in front of him now, pulling at his wrists with insistence. Oswald lifted slowly from the couch, obediently following as Ed pulled him towards the bed. The taller male sunk into the sheets, letting go of Oswald’s wrists as he did so. He stood at the side of the bed, as the seconds passed, wondering if Ed had fallen asleep.

“C’mere,” Ed demanded, voice still thick from sleep. He had his arms outstretched, one arm up high to beckon Oswald inwards.

Oswald’s lips pursed, shoulders slumped, and eyes fluttering closed as all reluctance dissolved the moment he dropped into awaiting arms. Ed pulled the duvet over both of them, settling his arms around Oswald’s lower back.

“Water.” Ed framed it as a question, but his tone seemed worn. “Tell me about the water.”

“Another time,” Oswald replied, knowing how much Ed needed to sleep. “Your alarm goes off in three hours.”

“Then I’ll call in sick.”

“That might raise suspicions with concerned Detectives.”

“Then I guess you should just answer me.”

“You didn’t actually ask a question, you-“

“ _Oswald,_ ” Ed growled, grip tightening around his lower back. “Now.”

“Before moving downtown, my mother and I lived in the suburbs. It was only briefly, as my mom cooked for the family who owned the house we occupied.” Oswald fidgeted with the buttons of Ed’s flannel, distress brewing. “I never did well with making friends, the moment I thought I might have gained companionship, they tried to drown me.”

“Kids are cruel,” Ed mumbled, lowering his chin to place it on the top of Oswald’s head.

“They tied my hands. I didn’t know how to swim, and they knew that. My mother had found us after they had pushed me in.” He’d accidentally undone one of the buttons while fidgeting, quickly remedying his error and leaving his hands stationary in between himself and Ed. “She moved us into the city after that, started to work as a cook for a richer family, made enough to afford a small apartment. We barely had enough to get by other than the commodity of a home. I spent hours after school walking to the harbour and teaching myself how to swim until I felt experienced enough to never endure the weakness I felt that day.”

“Even your younger self was riddled with ambition.”

“An ambition to survive seems like a fruitless adventure.”

“Depends on the reward before Death’s end.” Edward yawned, body stretching in response, inadvertently pressing Oswald closer.

“You can let me go now,” Oswald asked softly, yet idly hoping for it to be denied.

“No. I’ve decided on seeing this experiment through.”

“What’s the desired conclusion for this one?”

“No more talking.”

Oswald felt like that had meant for him to refrain from speaking, _and_ that Ed wanted to see if he’d be able to sleep soundlessly. It’s just that Oswald couldn’t sleep like this, not because he wasn’t content with the position; it was the hammering in his chest, he heard it in his ears, felt like his pericardium was collapsing inwards. It felt like he was counting down the days to the end of this ephemeral respite. Every passing day it grew harder to accept because all he really wanted to do was live out the dream he was living then. Silently wishing he’d been raised in different circumstances, where he'd grown to be someone that could’ve come across Ed in a chapter that could’ve been a part of a larger story.

On day **twenty-one** and **two** he finds himself enveloped restlessly in Ed’s arms when they go to sleep, a new agreement between the two. Oswald finding himself fearful to let it end. It’s his turn to have large dark circles under his eyes, prompting Ed to be concerned, but Oswald assures him that he feels more rested than he had in ages. It’s the **twenty-third, fourth, and fifth** day that Oswald truly falls asleep in Ed’s arms, whether from not having slept much at all the previous nights or the newest film of trust that they held now; either way, when he woke in the morning, it wasn’t a lie when he’d said he felt totally unwearied.

“Fabulous!” Ed placed the plate of homemade waffles in front of his guest, before clapping his hands together. “Only a couple of days of you lying about your quality of sleep, but it has _actually_ improved.”

Oswald nearly choked on the piece of waffle he’d inserted into his mouth. “How did you know-?”

“You get a certain gleam in your eye,” Ed stated. He was proud of himself for picking up on the quirk, Oswald was annoyed by it.

“I will have to learn to disguise it better.”

“Even though I might enjoy the challenge, maybe only disguise it better for others.”

“I haven’t needed to change my approach to lying until you, Mr Nygma.” Oswald muttered affectionately.

“Than perhaps we should stick with honesty.”

“ _Perhaps_.”

* * *

It’s day **twenty-two** when Jim approaches Edward again, still uncertain how to broach the topic of Oswald.

“Let’s just say hypothetically you were sheltering a fugitive,” Jim started, as Edward continued to work on scraping off charred flesh from the dead body on his lab table. Jim shifted uncomfortably as he watched Edward work. “Okay, instead, let me talk to you as a friend.” Edward’s fingers freeze on the tweezers in his hand. “This stays between you and me, but a very irritated… certain someone might have let it slip they saw Os- Penguin entering your apartment. As your friend-“ Edward feels Jim’s strong grasp on his shoulder, recognizing it for it being half a show of force and half concern. “I’m warning you that Captain Barnes intends to have a warrant issued to search your home.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Edward offered as a reply, already beginning to formulate a plan with the news. 

Jim left the lab wordlessly, not entirely sure what to make of Edward’s minimal acknowledgement. He did understand the severity of it all, didn’t he? Jim did have a genuine concern for the change in character that was starting to seep through Edward’s daily demeanour. Oswald was poisonous in his own way, and Jim didn’t want to see another victim.

Oswald watched on that evening as Edward installs a false door into the cupboard they had hidden Mr Leonard in. He handed Edward the bag of cans he’d brought home with him, unsure of what all of this was for. The reasoning hit him while Ed added the finishing touches to his creation.

“They know I’m here, don’t they?”

“You’d think Barnes would have the audacity to question my moral compass himself before sending in the firing squad, but evidently no,” Ed answered indirectly, using the drill a final time to secure the track in place. He closed the new door, lifting himself off his knees and wiping off wooden shavings from his trousers. He moved to place the drill back in its case, unaware as Oswald trailed him closely. “I’ve been nothing but cordial to all of them, through so many years, given all my time and patience, and yet they don’t even want to give me the benefit of the doubt. Can’t even see how discourteous it is. If it had been one of their precious officers or _anyone_ else, this would be different- but oh _no_! Not with Ed! He’s just so-“

“Ed!” Once Ed had finished putting the power tool away, Oswald grabbed his wrist, forcing him to face him. “I need you to focus! Are they coming here?”

“No- yes, I don’t know.” Edward’s gaze transitioned from vacant to attentive, looking around the room to make sure there was nothing of Oswald’s other than the individual himself. He had already disposed of the suit ( _much_ to the dismay of its owner) and the duffel bag. “Jim warned me they might.”

“I need-“

“No,” Edward hissed, catching a flicker of concern in Oswald’s orbs, causing Ed to immediately soften his tone, borderline begging. “I just- I mean, you have a place to hide when they show. Just _stay_ a little longer.”

How was he supposed to refuse? It defied all judgement, Oswald knew this. There was no certainty the officers wouldn’t find the false door, but it was Ed’s actions and mannerisms that compelled him to stay. It was the comfort Oswald acquired from feeling needed, even if he was more of a hindrance. It was the value Ed had placed in him that had festered into an emotional sustainment. All the sentiments from the weeks leading up to this point corralled in him, realizing it all only felt so bearable because Ed made it that way. All Ed was requesting was a simple assurance he wouldn’t leave.

“If you insist.”

* * *

On day **twenty-six** , Oswald was stuffed behind the false door in the cupboard that had been constructed specifically for this instance. Oswald spent an hour listening to ingrates shuffle around Ed’s apartment, trying to find anything that could help them locate the Penguin. 

“ _See?_ Nothing!” Ed’s voice was faint from the cupboard, the opening of the kitchen drawer and its subsequent slamming was substantially louder. “Yes, I’m sure I’ve been able to hide a full-sized adult in with my cutlery. This is hardly productive, and you could be expending your fine talents elsewhere.”

“Just doing our due diligence,” one of the cops sneered. “Anonymous tip said he’d been seen here, you understand.”

“I do and I don’t.” Edward followed the two as they moved towards the bathroom, for the third time. “It really hasn’t changed since you checked it fifteen minutes ago!”

“Can’t ever be too sure,” Alvarez said as he closed the door to the bathroom far more aggressively than necessary. He pointed a finger towards the cupboard, indicating for the other baboon to check it out.

“You already checked in there!” Edward called out, only for Oswald’s sake, who hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d gone into hiding.

The officer opened the cupboard forcefully, eyeing the stack of cans that were walled up a foot into the cupboard. “Yup, still nothing.”

Edward inconspicuously released the breath he’d been holding.

“Maybe it was just a prank call after all, eh, Ed?” Alvarez stated as they moved to leave the apartment. He clasped a hand on Edward’s shoulder, shaking it lightly. Edward followed them out eagerly.

“Maybe.” Edward couldn’t hide the scowl on his face.

“I wouldn’t have figured you being capable of hiding Gotham’s Kingpin anyway, just needed the confirmation.” Alvarez smiled in a way that told Edward that wasn’t meant to be a compliment. “Any criminal mastermind would be able to tell you don’t have the balls for it.”

Edward’s lip twitched as it curved into a knowing smile, “yes, truly such a feat would only be possible with an indomitable associate.” He slid the door shut before Alvarez could reply, pulling down the latch to lock the door in place.

Edward waited several minutes before going to the cupboard, pulling at a can of creamed corn that popped open a knob for him to twist, and folded the false wall to the side along its track.

“Good thing you aren’t any taller, that might’ve been more uncomfortable.”

Oswald was silent as he pressed his palm against Ed’s outstretched arm, allowing him to pull him to his feet. This was it. He couldn’t continue hiding here. The illusion was truly over, now Ed’s future was at stake if Oswald didn’t leave. He couldn’t be responsible for that outcome. He nudged passed Ed, gait heavy as he walked to the closet, pulling it open and finding… _right, nothing_.

“You know I threw everything out the night you killed Galavan- burned it actually. Your DNA and his were on them. I know that doesn’t mean much since you’re already planning to confess to something you didn’t do but-“

“You know what would be to _die_ for, right now?” Oswald asked cheerily, the sudden change in deportment catching Edward off-guard. “ _Kaiserschmarrn_.”

“I’m not familiar-“

“Yes, of course. Anything sweet, really.” Oswald casually interrupted, walking towards the window to watch as the officers drove away. He knew it was careless to look outside, but it didn’t matter anymore.

It felt like something was off, but Edward wasn’t going to question him. The air in the apartment was thick, and he couldn’t decipher why. Oswald wouldn’t meet his gaze as he left the apartment, fall coat in hand. It felt like a barrier had been constructed the moment the officers had knocked on his door. Still, he was eager to bring home Oswald’s request, deciding on cooking crème brûlée, as it had been a fan favourite with Miss Kringle.

_Miss Kringle._

When was the last time he’d thought of her? Cherished his memories of her?

 _Long gone now, Eddie darling._ Edward visibly whitened, fingers clenching around the grocery basket in hand. The voice was there and gone, no further torment to Edward’s shattered composure. He paid for the items he needed, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. It would be _fine_ , he had enough distraction at home with Oswald there. Except he should’ve known that he wouldn’t be.

Oswald had already resolved to leave minutes after Ed. He’d already scooped up a selection of warmer clothes hidden in the deepest crevices of Ed’s closet, briefly amused as he took a specific sweater he found on a hanger. Oswald folded the gifted pyjamas, delicately placing them into the laundry basket. He gave the apartment a longing look, heart in his throat as he left. It wasn’t meant to be easy, was it?

Edward opened the door to the apartment, meeting silence. He dropped the grocery bag of items to the ground, rushing to the washroom, and opening all his closets uselessly. His eyes fluttered, heart beating erratically, and moved towards the washroom again. He examined himself in the mirror, chest heaving heavily, eyes wild.

_If you have me, you will want to share me. If you share me, you will no longer have me. What am I?_

“A secret,” Edward answered, realizing the stupidity of answering an auditory hallucination.

 _I’ll let you in on one, Eddie. Even if you bound them, locked them up,_ ripped _them apart, put the trophy on display, no one will ever stay. You will always be alone._

It doesn’t take much else for Edward to slam his fist into the mirror, shattering it, shards piercing his knuckles. It doesn’t lessen the pain he feels, doesn’t lessen the distinct voice of Miss Kringle in his ear, repeating _loneliness_ like a mantra. All any of it does is cause inexplicable rage.

* * *

“ _Dummy_.” 

Edward feels the iced rose cracking in his fist, and he couldn’t prevent the venomous lace to his tone as he regarded Harvey. “I don’t like being called names, Detective.”

Jim’s too quick to pick up on Edward’s shift. “Easy, Ed. I’m sure Harvey was just being colourful.”

“Yeah.” Harvey takes the queue to defuse the situation, chuckling. “Yeah, I was just being colourful, Ed. I’m sorry.”

Edward doesn’t improve his tone, continuing with his explanation, dismissing Harvey’s presence entirely as he offers to research manufacturers who sold supercooled liquid helium.

“That would be really nice. Thank you, Ed.” Harvey practically curtseys, which to Edward feels like a further insult to injury. The detective moves to leave but realizes Jim is not following. “You coming?”

“Uh, give me a minute.” Jim closes the door to the lab, focusing on Edward. “Listen, Ed. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Jim’s always so perceptive, and Edward is already irritated enough. “Penguin.”

“Yes.” Jim shouldn’t be surprised that Edward already knew where the conversation was headed, he had brought it up twice already.

“You want to know the nature of my relationship with him.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re concerned I aided and abetted a known criminal.”

“Did you?”

“I found Mr Cobblepot wounded and dying in the woods. I nursed him back to health-“ _and he couldn’t even stay put._ “He owed me his life, which is why I trusted him when he said he had changed his ways. It was an innocent mistake.”

Jim looks as if he wants to press further but again is interrupted by an eruption outside the lab. Sheer worry pools in Edward’s stomach as they move into the lobby, catching the tail-end of Barnes’ spiel. Oswald was forcefully pulled along by Barnes, before being shoved into a cell. Edward felt the involuntary twitch from wanting to reach out to him, _wanting to help_. He felt guilty, despite none of this being his fault, but felt like the weight of his heart had tripled in his chest.

It also gave Edward enough time to observe Oswald's attire: from the merino wool, cable-linked olive-yellow sweater-vest Oswald had mentioned on more than one occasion was a _bloody travesty_ , to the very loose-fitting trousers that were likely being held up by the belt Edward had thought he’d lost, the large winter overcoat he had stuffed away in a box in his closet, and the pom-pom beanie he had likely left in the inner coat’s pocket. Edward wondered if he’d only taken the worst of his wardrobe so Oswald would never have to see him wear any of it.

Edward notices as Jim approaches the cell, not close enough to chat, but earning a small smile from Oswald before it rapidly falls.

* * *

 _“Psst_.” Edward opens the filing cabinet drawer, content that no one notices him to begin with, that they still wouldn’t now. Oswald doesn’t acknowledge him, prompting him to repeat himself. “ _Psst._ ”

Oswald turns to look over his shoulder, mood improved by the sound of his voice. “Ed?” 

“Shh, don’t look at me. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.” Edward pretends to flutter through the files, glancing at Oswald briefly. “You doing okay? You look kind of funky.”

Oswald chuckles softly. “I confess I’ve felt better.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m beyond help.”

Edward can hear the telltale signs of Oswald’s despair. Edward feels bitterness fermenting towards the bars between them.

“Forget me, my friend.” Oswald perks up, from concern, as he realizes he still hadn’t made arrangements for his mother. “But if you would take care of my mother’s grave, I’d be very grateful. If you’d visit occasionally, tell her I’m thinking of her.”

It was a lot to ask, and Oswald knew this, but there was no one else for him to consider.

“I will,” Edward assures.

“She likes lilies.”

“Occasional visits, lilies, _check_.” Edward finds himself no longer moving his fingers falsely in the cabinet, boring a hole into the wall in front of him.

“Thank you.” Oswald sniffles, desperate for Ed to understand how in such a harrowing circumstance, Ed had provided him, again, with relief that he wasn't alone.

“On your feet, Cobblepot.” An officer moves to open the door to the cell, Oswald obediently standing as he unlocks the cell.

“What’s going on? Where are you taking me?” He already knew the answer, but had thought it was too soon. How had time moved so fast?

“Arkham.” The officer confirmed, reaching forward to grab Oswald by the arm, and pulling it behind his back to handcuff the criminal. “You are insane, right?”

Dread is simmering in Edward’s mind, but there’s nothing he can do. He closes the filing cabinet, giving one last glance towards the officer leading Oswald away.

_You are so useless to him. So, so, so useless._

The only thing he can help with now is retrieving poor Gertrud Kapelput from the M.E.’s office and giving her a proper burial.


	6. CYFMH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : the Van Dahl's reinvigorate Oswald's bloodlust.

_“Oswald.”_

_The apartment has a musty aroma the moment Oswald opens the door._

_There’s a film of dust on all the furniture. There’s a plate of mouldy bread on the counter. There are unclean dishes in the sink. The dining room table is shattered. The antiquities Oswald so admired are smashed, scattered around the apartment. This apartment he so adored for two decades is utterly ruined. The one last reprieve from the underbelly of Gotham, and it was no more. There is a pile of old albums in the center of the living room, set ablaze some many weeks prior._

_He can’t bear to move. Eyelids heavy, they fall shut, hoping it’s all a dream._

_When he opens them again he’s met with an entirely different outlook. The apartment is no longer in tatters, his mother is cooking at the stove, idling making comments of how late Oswald was to dinner. She’s already set the now-intact table, there are countless unbroken picture frames around the room, and most of all – his mother is_ alive _._

_Oswald still can’t move. This must be the dream. When Hugo Strange wanted him to face his fears, to pull from the pain within himself, this was what he meant. He’d already faced this fear on many occasions, just in different variations._

_“Oswald, please, sit.” Gertrud prompts, bringing over a pot of stew from the kitchen and using a ladle to pour its contents into the bowls set around the table. Oswald finally notices there are four bowls._

_“Mother, are you expecting visitors?”_

_“My precious Oswald,_ you _invited them. Such fine guests.” Gertrud brings the pot back to the kitchen, Oswald following behind her. He wants to reach out, see if she’s truly real._

_Someone is clearing their throat from the dining table, causing Oswald to whirl around. Salvatore Maroni and Fish Mooney have both materialized at the table, staring at an open-mouthed Oswald, expectantly._

_“It’s rude to keep your guests waiting, Oswald.” Fish points out, one elbow propped up on the table, wagging a finger towards him, and then gesturing towards the seat across from her._

_He doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, walking the short distance to the round table and sitting down. Fish at the north, Oswald at the south, Maroni at the west, and when his mother finally sits down, Gertrud at the east. They eat in silence, except Oswald. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. He’s trying not to bore a hole into his bowl, but the grimace on his face is a dead giveaway for all the discomfort he feels. There’s a familiar grasp on his arm, and his glare softens immediately. There’s a warmth to his mother’s touch, one he shouldn’t be capable of feeling, but it’s there and it’s real, and all he wants to do is reach out and hold her. To never let her go._

_“You haven’t eaten any of your food, my boy.” Gertrud soddenly notes._

_“Eat your ma’s food, how ungrateful can you be?” Maroni presses, reaching over to grab Oswald’s spoon, grabbing a large scoop of the stew, and forcing it between Oswald’s teeth._

_“What are you- I can eat it myself!” Oswald feels the dribble of some of the stew on his chin, hastily wiping it off, and grabbing his spoon back from Maroni. He looks down at the stew, clenching his eyes shut. “You ALL are supposed to be dead!”_

_“That hasn’t changed.” Fish assures, her hand reaching across the table, grazing over Oswald’s. Her fingernails rip across his hand, drawing blood. Her hand is shockingly clammy, forcing Oswald’s eyes open, again forcing his mouth agape at the sight around him._

_Fish Mooney is drenched in sea water, the distinct scent of Gotham’s pier overwhelming the apartment. Salvatore Maroni’s face is covered in blood from the gaping gunshot wound in his head, clearly still functioning as he continues to shovel more food into his mouth. Oswald dreads the idea of looking towards his mother but does so slowly. Oswald’s breath hitches when he finds her injury hasn’t manifested. The apartment has returned to its dishevelled state, but the only thing that’s hasn’t changed is the dining room table._

_“Oswald,” Fish pulls his attention towards her, her nails still etched into Oswald’s hand. “You haven’t been a good boy, have you?”_

_“Tell me that isn’t true, Liebchen.” Gertrud grabs his free hand. “You are my perfect boy.”_

_“Tell your mother the truth, Oswald.” Maroni dabs a napkin to his chin, not that it does much for the blood spatter._

_“I’m not who you think I am, mother.” Oswald starts, pulling his other hand out from underneath Fish’s grasp, ignoring the fierce pain from her nails. He drops it over top of Gertrud’s, smile bright, and mask in place as he addresses his mother. This was a part of facing his fears, owning up to being the Penguin. “I am deeply sorry.”_

_“You can still be good.” Gertrud tries, which earns a throaty laugh from the other two occupants at the table._

_Oswald turns to shush them but is stupefied to find Fish and Maroni have been replaced by variations of himself. One dressed in magenta flannel pyjamas, like those he wore at Ed’s apartment. The other donned in a cashmere black suit, velvet lapels with a sheen of blood-red plum to match the tone of the waistcoat underneath, topped with a mulberry-coloured paisley tie, accented with amethyst. Oswald fidgets in his seat, now realizing he’s wearing the Arkham Asylum jumper._

_“You can still be good,” Gertrud repeats. “You can be fair, and just. You must, you will never be happy if you continue on this path. My handsome boy, listen to your mama. You must change. I beg of you. Or-“_

_There’s a flicker and they’ve been teleported to the abandoned building Oswald has permanently ingrained in his mind. He has every window, door, exit strategy memorized from being here so many times. The apparitions have disappeared, but he’s still wearing the jumper. His mother is in his arms, so happy to be freed. Oswald can already feel the pain in his chest, knowing how the next part goes. He has had weeks of this stimulation, weeks of having this scene on repeat, yet it all ended the same. He was thankful it wasn’t himself doing it this time._

_“This will just_ keep _happening!” Tabitha plunges the knife into his mother's back, and Oswald holds her desperately for what seemed like the hundredth time._

It’s this last time that forces him to waken in a completely new docile state. The electrode-contraption pulled from his head, gag from his mouth removed, restraints loosened. Miss Peabody stares at him sceptically, awaiting some verbal abuse of a response, but there was none. Just acceptance.

“And who’s to say Arkham’s recidivism rates are high?” Dr Strange laughed from the observation deck, a couple of days later, as they push Oswald through another session. They didn’t even have to force him into the chair this time.

Penguin is nothing but a shell of a man, catering to the whims of everything those around him ask. Nothing angers him, nothing pushes him to be violent, there is no regression. All he feels is the desire to continue in place, as this Arkham abode has exonerated him of the man he once was; the man who plagues the back of his mind, is presently caged for his nefarious behaviour. It is Oswald’s release from Arkham that terrifies him, knowing how treacherous Gotham is, but Dr Strange has him entranced in the knowledge that he can do good things, to make his mother proud. He is dressed in the clothes he arrived in and doesn’t mind. The colours don’t anger him, the unflattering size doesn’t frustrate him.

He doesn’t know where to start, all he can think of are the people he’s wronged. He makes a list in his mind, starting with Butch Gilzean.

Choosing from the cupcake assortments at the bakery was a nightmare, the poor baker behind the counter looked filled with fear. He shakily prepared the box, even offered it to Oswald for free when he realized he didn’t have a cent to his name. The absolute anxiety towards his customer doesn't even register to Oswald, he just figures the cashier was a kind soul. He offers a gleeful smile as the baker hands him the box, nearly losing his footing behind the counter as he approached.

“I will return the money to you when I can, friend!” Oswald outstretched a hand towards him, intent on shaking the baker’s as if they had arrived at some form of a deal.

“It’s unnecessary, but t-thank you.” The baker stammered, taking his hand reluctantly. He heaved a sigh once he heard the door chime announcing Oswald’s exit. He glanced over at the copy of that day’s Gotham Gazette, which headlined: ' _Terror of Gotham, Born Anew?'_ Even Dr Strange couldn’t have paid them enough to keep it tight-lipped for a day.

The first interaction Oswald has with anyone else is Butch Gilzean, and he’s intent to make amends. Butch was always loyal, Oswald understood his value from his change of perspective. He felt wrong for decapitating his hand, felt guilty that Zsasz had brainwashed him, and felt that he owed Butch an apology.

Butch regarded him as if hell had frozen over, there couldn’t have been any other instance for Penguin to be like this. It was sad in a way, that Oswald went from kingpin to this… _meek_ loser. Despite their differences, Butch had a small amount of respect for him that he wouldn’t outwardly admit to. Tabitha couldn’t see that, all she saw was her brother’s murderer. Even after she covered Oswald in tar and feathers, she was unforgiving, saying how he deserved worse.

“Tabi, baby.” Butch pleaded, grabbing her wrist as she toyed with the whip in her hands. “You killed his mom. You remember that, don’t you? Doesn’t that make you two square?”

Tabitha’s back straightened, observing that Oswald hadn’t even taken the chance to run, fully prepared to accept whatever punishment Tabitha wanted to bestow on him. It wasn’t even worth her time. “Fine. It wasn’t much fun with such a _willing_ participant, anyway.”

Oswald wasn’t sure what more he expected. He’d gone to one of the last places he’d been comfortable. He’d built an empire, and that building was where he last resided in his prime. He briefly thought of who else he needed to absolve to, thoughts wandering to Jim Gordon. Jim had left him in Arkham to rot, it didn’t make Oswald feel inclined to visit, not out of bitterness… just contented things would be better left unsaid.

He thought of other places he felt comfortable. Thought of his apartment with his mother, not wanting to find out if their home was in as much disarray as he dreamed of. He thought of her grave, not even knowing if she’d been properly buried. He had left that task to-

“Edward,” Oswald muttered out, as he exited Butch's complex. He had quite the distance to travel, absurdly aware of the pain in his knee as he walked, but nowhere else came to mind that he wanted to be.

* * *

Jim had been considering the circumstances of Kristen Kringle’s disappearance and was setting into motion a game Edward wasn’t sure he was ready to play. However, Edward’s more… powerful self-had already begun working through the pieces to the puzzle, giving light to everything he needed to do.

Despite the sensational experience of planning to overthrow GCPD’s crown jewel of a detective, Edward still ensured he made his weekly visits to Gotham Cemetery. He typically did this on his way home, picking up a bouquet of lilies from the florist near the precinct. By now she had his order, time, and day of the week he came in memorized, and he tipped heavily as a token of his appreciation. He’s uncertain how much longer he should continue with his weekly routine, since the papers have already informed all of Gotham of the Penguin’s release.

There’s a fond appreciation he has when he visits Gertrud, takes the time to talk to her, telling her all the gratitude he has for her son, just leaving out the corruption. He doesn't want to taint the image she had of her son, even while being six feet under. Edward was wistful when he spoke to Gertrud, coming to the cemetery was a reminder that parental relationships were normally valuable. To the average person, losing a parent was like losing a part of themselves. It had taken Oswald’s experience with grief for Edward to understand that.

However, he would never truly resonate with those emotions. Both of his parents were dead, and it didn’t torment him. It felt as if he’d been missing an element that was crucial to the human psyche, and he couldn’t relate. All he could do was continue to visit, talk with a mother that wasn’t his own, and then travel home.

At home, Edward dropped the duffel bag on his floor, pulling the gloves on from his pockets. Removing the crowbar he’d acquired earlier, he examined it, muddled with Jim’s fingerprints. All the pieces were falling into place, it was perfect, nothing could ruin it. Edward heard the knock at his door, shuffling to drop the crowbar back into the bag and zippering it, before making his way over.

Edward’s enthralled to find Oswald standing there. After he’s let Oswald into the apartment, he’s concerned for his attire, indicating with his hands outstretched inquisitively.

“Just good ol’ Butch and Tabitha having fun. They talked about killing me, so this was actually pretty nice of them, considering.” Oswald's smiling as if there's nothing but amusement towards Tabitha and Butch's actions.

“Pretty nice of them?” Edward was incredulous. Oswald was _completely_ free of malice and ill-intent. But... Edward was not. That piece was no longer tethering them together, and in a way, it relinquished all inquisitions Edward had of the _infamous_ Penguin. This was everything he’d hoped _wouldn’t_ happen. “They did a pretty good job on you in Arkham, huh?”

“I’m here to tell you, Ed, as a friend, violence and anger are not the answer. I am a changed man. Better. And you can change, too.”

Edward breathes in deeply, for a long time he’d been certain he’d never hear those words. Oswald was a building block to his budding villainous career, now he was just a passive fragment.

“ _Cool_.” Edward feels a chuckle erupt from him, before clearing his throat. “Tempting offer. The thing is… the me I am right now is kind of hitting my stride.”

“Oh.” Oswald’s expression falters, his advice not having its intended effect.

“And I’m grateful for all you’ve taught me, and that bad stuff you told me about Jim Gordon is really paying off.”

That pulls a chuckle from the small male, “is it?”

“It is. It’s helped me to create the perfect puzzle to get rid of my Jim Gordon dilemma. Normally, I would love to share, but to be honest, the new you-“ Edward rotates his hands in front of Oswald as if sizing him up, “-is kind of freaking me out.” He’s practically forcing Oswald out of his apartment, knowing he needs to continue to enact his plan on Jim Gordon before too much time passes. “I’m just really busy right now.”

“Well, I’ll be on my way.” Oswald’s still cheery, despite how things had gone.

“Thanks for coming by.” Edward offers a half-smile, feeling as if all previous illusions had been shattered. He doesn't take the time to recognize that once the door is closed, a pit in his chest flutters in pain.

It’s in this world that Oswald is alone. There’s no other way to describe it. Despite the nagging burn he feels that this isn’t entirely who he should be, it’s not enough to pull him from the stupor. It’s not enough that he feels as if there is no place here to call his own. It’s not enough that he has no one to turn to. He feels like there must be some chapter missing, something that would leave him in this state. It’s with all of this he feels pulled to Gotham Cemetery. The wind sends a shiver through his spine, standing over his mother’s grave in the rain. He finds a minimal amount of happiness in the freshness of the lilies resting at the foot of her gravestone. Despite now being worthless to the only friend he had, at least Ed had kept his word.

If Oswald could feel anything other than simply… complacent, he might’ve recognized his loneliness for being as paralyzing as it could be. It’s the tears falling from his face as he regards her gravestone, suggesting that he was in-fact human; that at least he was still capable of feeling the grief he held within.

“Hello, mother. What a lovely spot.” Oswald sobs, sniffling as he continues. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here for the funeral. But I think you would be proud of me. I’m a changed man. Or at least, I’m trying to be. To be honest, I don’t know if I’m going to make it without you.”

It’s the most honest he’s been of his circumstances after being released from Arkham. There was nothing to his life that kept him grounded. He had known nothing other than being Gertrud’s son, and a criminal. It’s when a man encroaches on his moment with his mother that he feels strangely optimistic.

“Did you know her?” Oswald asks him after they’ve exchanged pleasantries and the man places more lilies on her grave.

“A long time ago. I found her again only in death, I’m afraid.” The man takes in Oswald, extending his arm and hand to shake his. “I’m Elijah Van Dahl.”

“Oh, Oswald Cobblepot.”

“’ _Cobblepot_ ’? You’re related to Gertrud?”

“My mother.”

“Mother? You’re Gertrud's son?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.” Elijah seems as if realization is dawning on him, hand clutching his chest.

“Uh, how did you know my mother exactly?”

“How old are you?”

“Excuse me?” Oswald is a little taken aback by the urgent tone, tilting back.

“How old are you? Gertrud left-”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one years ago, yes. Oh, my God! She-she never told me!” Elijah seems overjoyed at this information, further confounding Oswald.

“Told you what?”

“That I had a son!”

Oswald barely has time to register this latest information before he’s taken to a waiting 911F Porsche at the base of the hill. He feels propelled into a dreamlike state, that muddles him even further once they’ve driven out of Gotham's core, passing through a motorized gate, and finally coming up to a mansion larger than most he’d seen. How long had they been driving? Half an hour? Gotham’s downtown was a thin skyline from the mansion’s perch.

Oswald is overwhelmed as the driver of the car opens his door, and even more overawed by having the front door to the large home opened for him. His father asks one of the servants waiting in the doorway to get him a change of clothes, and the woman is back in an instant, handing him a navy and gold woven robe, and cotton set of pyjamas to match. He was shown around the first floor, while his father fretted about Oswald looking like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. They sat to eat a prepared meal by the house’s cook. Oswald was flabbergasted, speechless as his father talked about his mother and their time together, three decades prior.

“She never told me she was pregnant. She didn’t tell me about you.” Elijah is tearful as he chokes through the explanation, hoping it could repair the damage of not being around for his son. Oswald had never felt animosity towards not having a father, it was just something he’d grown into. His mother had always been enough. “If she did-“

“She told me that my father had died when I was still a baby.”

“Easier than the truth, I suppose. That your father was a coward-“ at this Oswald is trying to shake his head in disagreement, but Elijah continues on with the self-deprecation. “-who wouldn’t stand up to his parents. She must’ve figured that the two of you would be better off making your own way. Which, in fact, was probably the truth. Look at you-“ At this Elijah comes around the table, pulling Oswald to his feet. “A strong young man. She did a good job, didn’t she.”

“She tried.”

“We both miss her terribly.” Elijah pulls him into an embrace. “My poor boy. You’ve been all alone in the world.”

It’s a solemn recognition that resonates so deeply in Oswald; that he could be read so effortlessly by this man that was his father. Oswald releases a short laugh, “yes, I have.”

“No longer. You have a home. And a father. And a family.”

There was a tenderness to all of this, the allure of the home Oswald now belonged to. The acquired knowledge that he meant something to someone, it brought brevity to Oswald’s glimmering hope. He was heedless to the tension in the mansion, how the walls seemed to house secrets they could not bear.

Oswald and his father spent the subsequent days making up for lost time. He doesn’t think of speaking of all his past wrongdoings until a moment prompts him to do so. Honesty feels integral to this state Oswald is in. He can’t keep something of his past hidden from the man who took him in; the person he’d once been had flourished with the demons in his heart, it was no longer the case. This life he strived to have with his father, despite being so _contained_ in the household, free of fear, free of temptation, was a life his mother would be proud of.

“There’s so much I haven’t told you.” Oswald’s tearful of the story he’s going to tell, uncertain if by the end he’ll be shown the door, and this will all end. There’s nothing to keep him there. The person he’d been was _filthy_ , cruel, unruly. He’s thoughtfully aware of his father’s heart condition, not wanting to startle him with the news coming from anyone else. “So much that I’m ashamed of. I was a criminal. I’ve done horrible things. Hurt people, manipulated, lied, for power, for revenge. I’ve _killed_ people, father.”

Understanding flickers through Elijah, “our lives together started the moment I met you at the cemetery. Nothing before that concerns me. I forgive you for all your past transgressions.”

It’s more than Oswald could ever ask for, and it’s enough to keep his demons at bay.

The weeks pass, and he seldom notes that there is little connection to Gotham, the distance from the city provides a wall against all its inner turmoil. Oswald hasn’t seen a newspaper in weeks, totally unaware of anything that’s occurred outside the mansion property. It’s strange and a relief all in the same breath. He doesn’t need to be reliant on the hysteria that used to bring him so much pleasure.

He was thoughtless to the treatment he received from his extended family after they attempt to squander his relationship with his father by spilling out _who_ the Penguin was. Oswald doesn’t have the cerebral capacity to recognize their disdain for his presence. He’s non-critical towards the forward advances of his step-sister, other than the absurdity of it.

 _‘We could do great things, you and me. We could squeeze my mom and brother out._ ’ The words went uncharacteristically over Oswald’s exceptional perceptive nature. After all, his father was a fixture of his life for as long as he was permitted to stay.

“Don’t listen to doctors, son. I’ve proved them wrong so many times I’ve lost count. You and I will have many more years to spend together. Trust me.” Elijah guaranteed.

It’s later in the evening Oswald sees the side of the Van Dahl name that makes him hopelessly relate to who he used to be.

“I lied to you, son.” Elijah rises from the armchair, circling in front of Oswald. “My father was never physically ill. He only suffered a deep melancholy. He was plagued by dark impulses, evil thoughts of violence. Mother said many in his family had the same affliction.” Oswald feels a twitch of realization, his own malignant spirits entombed thanks to a one Hugo Strange. “I remember the sound of the gunshot. I was outside his room. I screamed for my mother to get the key. I saw the warm gun in his hand. The blood. His face. Mother said never to talk about it. For years after the funeral, we never left the house. I don’t pretend to understand my father’s torment. But I think perhaps you do.”

Oswald isn’t sure which part he’s meant to compare himself most to; that he’d poisoned so many of those around him before being thrown into Arkham, or the way he felt in the days when he’d been released. How he had felt so alone, conflicted with the knowledge that his path had been obscured, that there hadn’t been certainty he’d even wanted to survive if it hadn’t been for his father showing up when he had.

“I feel for you, and I beg of you, my son. Never give in to the pain as he did. You are loved, and you are not alone. And the sun will come up tomorrow.”

Oswald can only offer thanks for his father’s guidance. His father is then joking about how much he needs a drink, and he finds it difficult to stop him.

“I want you to have it all, my son. This house and all that’s in it. Keep it just the way it is, a piece of history, _our_ history. Gotham’s history. First thing tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyers draw it up.”

The minutes that follow this claim are fragmented in Oswald’s memory, blurred by the sheer fear that grips him when his father collapses on the floor after drinking from the glass. He’s not even aware as Grace Van Dahl is spewing nonsense of how her husband shouldn’t have drunk from it, only solely focused on clutching his father in his arms, as foam spewed from the corners of Elijah’s lips. Oswald only remembers the pained groans of his father, the way he’s trying to lie that it would all be okay. It’s when the groaning stops and his father’s stare goes vacant that he knows no ambulance could save him now. They were too far out, it was too late. Oswald wishes he didn’t already know how it felt to be so anguished, but he does, and he recognizes how his father’s soul leaves him. He feels the ripple of torment, cascading in tears across his cheeks. He wouldn’t wish this level of agony on anyone.

It’s _too_ short.

The funeral comes _too_ fast.

As quickly as everything had come to change his life, it had tumbled all around him. He’d been so sure that the Van Dahl’s would always be his family, they couldn’t possibly leave him in the cold now, and yet his step-mother was asking him if he needed a cab.

He had nowhere else in the world to be. His father had wanted him to stay at the mansion, to carry on.

‘ _I’m simply not comfortable sleeping under the same roof as a notorious murderer.’_

He could prove his worth. He held no malice towards anyone. He could prove that. It had ended with a compromise, Oswald could help around the house, and there’d be no need for servants if he’d be willing to _do_ anything for his step-mother. This arrangement’s fallout was eerily tantamount to the story of Cinderella. He cooked, he cleaned, he dealt with how his siblings by extension transformed into school children, throwing food at him, or causing him excess work around the house. They took advantage of Oswald’s new position anytime they could, constantly berating him for his ineptitude at cooking, cleaning, _breathing_.

The distraction was enough for Oswald to ignore any sort of grief he should’ve felt. Since leaving Arkham, he seemed incapable of feeling much emotion _anyway_ , so he might not have even needed to be a maid to overcome it.

Finding the sherry decanter had been a stroke of luck, Oswald hadn’t seen it since the evening his father had passed away. The foul smell that came from it indicated to him there’d been something off, suspicions confirmed after he’d poured a heavy amount into a bowl and allowed the family dog to succumb to the poison.

The _crack_ that occurs in Oswald is intense and wrought with fury.

Tightening the clasp of the apron at his back, a twisted smile creased Oswald’s lips. There’s no hesitation as he grabs a steak knife from the cutlery drawer, he passes the living room, where Grace is nestled next to the radio, consumed in the novel in her lap, and the music filling the room. The excitement has Oswald taking two stairs at a time, his leg not fighting with him as he moves.

_Calamity._

It’s what comes of the Van Dahl mansion.

Sasha is first. The minx followed the same pattern every day, settling in for an afternoon snooze was paramount to her beauty routine. She sleeps with a mask over her eyes, and ear plugs as she describes, ‘ _to drown out the constant creaking of the house’_. Oswald climbs onto the mattress, indulging in how she was an incredibly deep sleeper.

Upon straddling her hips though, she’s up at a start, at first confused, but then begins thrashing, pushing against the thighs at her sides. Oswald doesn’t want it to be quick, but he also doesn’t want Grace to pick up on what’s occurring under her nose. A gloved hand is pressed against Sasha’s mouth as she takes a deep breath, likely to start screaming. It’s the arch of her head against the pillow that pulls a chortle from Oswald, giving him the perfect view of her strained neck. He lifts the knife over his head, coming down to perfectly slice into her jugular notch.

The struggling stops, Oswald pulls the knife from her neck, wiping it against her sleeved arm. He exits her bedroom, walking past the staircase to the other end of the hall to enter Charles’ room. Charles is busying in the ensuite bathroom, allowing Oswald time to grab the atrocious coffee-brown scarf hanging on the chair in the room. He waits patiently next to the bathroom door, the fabric vibrating in his right hand’s grasp, the knife in his other.

Charles is the most pretentious sibling of the two, mostly from being so young, but that’s not Oswald’s concern. The bathroom door opens, Charles unaware of Oswald as he passes him.

Oswald reaches forward to press a foot in front of Charles’ path, effectively tripping him. He tumbles to the floor in a gasp, reaching out to fall on his elbows. Oswald follows him to the floor, left knee pressing into Charles' lower back to paralyze him. He lifts the knife, tweaking his head to the side to find the perfect angle, before plunging the knife into his _dear_ step-brother’s spleen. Charles groans, incapable of reaching around at the pain that travels through him. Oswald releases the hold he has on the knife, using his strength to wrap the scarf around Charles’ throat, pulling back against the male’s neck. Charles’ back arches, his hands making a feeble attempt to grasp at the fabric. His struggles are fruitless, his life had been forfeit the moment they thought they could ever hide _anything_ from Oswald.

The asphyxiation takes its toll, claiming Charles’ brevity within minutes. He releases the hold on the scarf around Charles’ neck, the dead male’s forehead meeting the floor with a  _thud._ Oswald collapses backwards, off Charles and landing on the palms of his hands against the wool of the carpet beneath him. He hadn’t thought of the justice he needed to exact on Grace past killing her only children, but staring at the back of Charles’ head gave him a superb idea.

“I wonder which one she truly preferred?” Oswald asks to a silent room.

He’s content that Grace still hasn’t moved from her spot in the living room, totally negligent to the events unfolding. He grabs a butcher’s knife from the kitchen, heading back to the siblings’ individual rooms. After all, they needed to be in pieces to be par for the course.

Grace doesn’t notice at first, doesn’t notice _anything_ really. Doesn’t notice the style of Oswald’s hair, the way in which it matches the pictures from newspaper articles they had found of Penguin. Doesn’t notice his attire, the suit his father had fitted him in as his last gift to his son. Doesn’t immediately notice her children are missing from dinner. Doesn’t take into account the taste of the dish in front of her.

“How is it?” Oswald asks, docile mask in place. “Not too gamey?”

“Overcooked.” Grace states disappointedly.

“Try the other joint,” Oswald recommends, pulling another piece from the center dish onto her plate. “It is much more tender.”

“Hmm,” she considers, chewing the piece slowly. “It’s the same.”

“Still, beats my _slut_ mother’s goulash, no?” Oswald smiles, ensuring the repeat of Grace’s earlier insult didn’t come off as bitter as he truly wanted it to.

“Where are the children?” Grace’s brows furrow, taking in Oswald’s figure before placing another piece of the meal into her mouth. “Ring the bell again.”

“I doubt they’ll hear it.”

She looks him up and down again, “you look different.”

Oswald laughs, took the _bitch_ long enough to be perceptive of her surroundings. “You noticed. Yes! I’m doing my hair a different way, so.”

“Charles! Sasha!” Grace calls, receiving no reply, growing more fearful of Oswald’s gaze. “Where are they?”

“I found the sherry decanter, Grace.” Oswald ignores her previous question, analyzing her mannerisms to his discovery. “The one with poison in it that you used to kill my father.”

Grace’s utensils clink on the table as she drops them next to her plate, “what on earth are you talking about?”

“You should have thrown it away!” Oswald chuckles, his tone condescending of her rudimentary plan. “Guess you’re a little too mean to waste good poison, huh?” Grace tries to get up from her chair, but Oswald’s quick to grab one of the boning knives at his disposal, feigning dismay for her actions. “Oh, don’t go.”

“Charles! Sasha! Help!” Grace tries.

The amusement of it all sends a thrill down Oswald’s spine. “They won’t come.”

“Where are they?” Grace appears to cycle through daunting realizations of what had potentially occurred to her children.

“You thought they tasted the same, but _Sasha_ ” Oswald presses a finger to the meat’s juices on Grace’s plate, enthusiastically placing it between his lips to taste, then removing his finger with a _pop_. “Mm.”

It was the outcome Grace hadn’t expected, hadn’t even _thought_ of. Bile collected in her throat. “No. No-“

“Definitely more tender-“

“No.”

“-in my opinion.”

“No, no!”

Oswald relishes that there’s no one to hear her scream, scraping the knife across the base of her throat, blood spattering over his cheek. It’s more careless with her than it had been with the children, after all she was the mastermind to her father’s demise. She deserved the worst of it, succumbing to the knowledge she had feasted on her children before dying at his hand. He’s relentlessly plunging the knife in sporadic variations, across her shoulders, into her chest, and then again slicing through her neck.

As he sits on the opposite side of the dining table, raising his Bloody Mary in a toast to the newest addition to Oswald’s list of carnage, the time is fleeting. He has no will for sleep, concern crushing him for what he’d lapsed into over the last number of weeks. He’d been led so astray. He felt better for it, but the recollection of those who turned him away, witnessed his weakness, infuriated him. He needed to make an example of _someone_. He needed to reclaim his post in Gotham.

Reclaim his _throne._

* * *

Edward’s sweet reward for framing Gordon was his imprisonment, as was intended, but it hadn’t lasted.

At some point, he thought it might have been more useful if the Detective had died, especially now that he’d _somehow_ escaped from Blackgate. He had ended up at Edward’s apartment, some strange belief that Jim could _trust_ Edward is what led him there. Now Edward was trying to stall as much as he could from cleaning the tape of his own recorded call, trying to refrain from making any comments that could implicate himself.

It would be inevitable though, Jim would figure it all out. He wasn’t entirely daft – at least by Edward’s standards. It was just a matter of _when_. He had already ensured Jim was seated on the proper _chair_ in the apartment, one that would shock Jim into oblivion by the press of a button. The remote presently in Edward’s pocket.

“You need some more tea,” Edward’s up from his seat, manoeuvring to the kitchen space. He clears his throat of nerves, _no not nerves_ , he still had the upper hand. “So, the person who killed Pinkney and framed you is the same person that attacked the art museum and planted the bomb in the train station. Amazing.” _Dial back the urge to compliment yourself, Eddie._ “And you don’t have any leads?”

“I think Loeb was behind it. Payback. He still has lackeys in the GCPD.” Jim replies, scanning over Edward’s apartment briefly.

“Is that so?”

“Everything points to a cop. Or someone who worked with the police. Had access.”

Edward’s careless as he brings the teapot across his counter, knocking over glasses in the process of looking over at Jim.

“You all right, Ed?”

“Right as rain.” Edward recovers, clearing his throat as he places the teapot on the stovetop element, turning a dial to light it. “Just thinking. Surely, you don’t think that Loeb killed Pinkney himself?”

“No. He had some psychopath do it for him.”

 _Psychopath_  unravels Edward immediately. “Psychopath seems a strong word.”

“He bludgeoned a man to death with a crowbar in cold blood. He’s sick.”

 _Relax._ “You say that, yet you’ve killed lots of people, haven’t you?”

Jim peers over his shoulder in Edward’s direction, brows furrowed. “That was in the line of duty.”

“And a person who would kill in cold blood is a psychopath.” Edward’s gaze moves up to the skylight, feigning comprehension of the ‘ _difference_ ’ between the two. “See, I knew the rumours weren’t true.”

“What rumours?” Jim’s at his feet, concern for Edward’s regard.

“About you killing Galavan. You would never do that. That would make you like the people that you’re hunting… sick… diseased.” _You are playing outside your hand._ The teapot begins to whistle from the stove, interrupting the topic of conversation. “Thar she blows.” As the whistling continues, Edward tries to quiet himself, whispering. “Shut up, you’re talking too much.”

“Ed,” the whistling stops as Jim approaches him. “Did Penguin ever say anything about that night?”

“Hmm?” Edward pours the hot water into Jim’s mug, briefly considering if he should’ve just poisoned Jim outright.

“Did Penguin ever tell you anything about the night that Galavan died?”

“No. Remember, I nipped that friendship in the bud.”

“And you didn’t talk to him in the GCPD, when Barnes brought him in?”

“Yes.” Edward couldn’t prevent the honest reply as it escaped him. “No. I- just to say hi.” The tape clicks behind them, “oh, tape’s finished. I’m going to give that a listen.”

“Let’s both listen.” Jim moves into Edward’s path.

“Swell idea.”

Jim presses play on the recording, as Edward stands to the side.

The operator comes over the speakers. “Internal Affairs.”

Edward’s voice is distorted from the voice changer he had used. “I want to report a crime. I saw Detective James Gordon shooting Mayor Theo Galavan on the south side docks. The Penguin was beating him with a bat, but it was Gordon that pulled the trigger.”

A cuckoo clock chimes over the recording, Jim’s eyebrows creasing more in awareness as he peered up at Edward. “It’s not a bird. It was mechanical.”

Edward raises a finger into the air, not meeting Jim’s gaze. “Without fingers, I point, without arms I strike, without feet I run.” He begins, finger folding to make a fist as he looks to Jim. “What am I?”

It takes a few seconds before Jim answers, “you’re a clock.”

“Correct.”

Jim pulls the gun from his side holster, aiming it at the taller male. “I know it was you, Ed.”

“Me?” Edward's fingers unravelled to rest against his chest, feigning obliviousness.

“You.”

The real cuckoo clock chimed at that moment, raising a smile on Edward’s face as he looks over at it, laughing lowly. “Guess what? I knew that you knew that I know.” There’s an electric crackling from the chair, immobilizing Jim and sending the chair to the floor with a clatter. “That’s why your chair was wired to the mains.”

It takes him several minutes to grab the things he needs to bury Jim, intent on adding him to his collection in the forest. After he binds Jim’s hands, Edward leaves briefly to station his car in the alleyway next to the building. He begins the trek of dragging Jim to the elevator, to the back entrance of the apartment complex, and then along the pavement. He’s clearly misjudged the amount of time Jim’s been under, as he opens the trunk to his car, turning back around to note that Jim is no longer there. Edward makes out Jim opening a window to the building next to them. Edward pulls back the safety of the weapon and aims it towards Jim, firing. Impressed with himself he’d managed to hit Jim’s leg, it still doesn’t prevent Jim from escaping.

He follows Jim into the building, nerves building. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He _still_ had the upper hand, didn’t he? “I bet you’re wondering, ‘ _why did Ed do this to me? Set me up, ruin my life.’_ I’ll give you a hint, Jimbo. K.K.”

“Kristen Kringle.” Jim releases, indicating his location as Edward fires towards it.

Edward bit back an annoyed expletive, coming down the steps and unable to find Jim. He follows him out into the street, but he had already disappeared into the crowd. “Rats.”

When morning came, the only thing he could do was go to work as if nothing was amiss. Moving from the annex to the lab, he hears a female voice come across the precinct: “Who do I talk to about the reward for Jim Gordon?” Selina Kyle announces loudly, pulling the attention from everyone around. Edward can tell Harvey is trying to quiet her, but Barnes is there in a flash.

“He was at my place a couple hours ago.” Selina Kyle states, “he’d been shot.”

“Shot? Who shot him?” Harvey asked worriedly.

“Didn’t say. He wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

“Is he still there now?” Barnes asked.

“No, he took off. I don’t know where, but he was just looking for a place to lie low for awhile, I guess.”

“That’s not worth ten thousand dollars.”

“Fine.” Selina flung her arms into the air, irritation added to her rouse. “Before he left he said he’d found out where the Penguin was hiding, he was gonna go see him.”

“Why would he go see the Penguin?”

“I don’t know. Something about… Penguin knows where the body’s buried?”

“What bodies?”

“I don’t know.”

Barnes turns towards Harvey. “Where’s the Penguin now?”

“No one knows.” The detective replies.

Edward’s heart is beating violently, sending him to the washroom in a rush.

“Maybe Gordon won’t even find Penguin. _You idiot. He’s a detective. He finds people for a living_! Penguin won’t tell him, he’s my friend.” The memory of him physically pushing Oswald from his apartment for entirely selfish reasons came to mind, some _friend_ he was. “Oh, who am I kidding?”

He calculates probabilities out loud, attempting to silence the anger within himself to simply _locate_ Jim Gordon and put him out of everyone’s misery. He needs to return to the forest first, recoup the bodies and move them. It’s the only way his innocence remained true. It’s only in the middle of recovering the bodies of his former girlfriend and the hunter that had stumbled upon her grave, that Jim steps on a twig from behind him, prompting Edward to whirl around, the detective’s own pistol aimed towards him.

“Jim Gordon, so you did find Penguin.” Edward laughed coldly, perhaps he never had a friend in Oswald at all.  _Means to an end, and all._  “And that little bird sang.”

“No. I just followed you.”

Despite the urgency of the situation, Edward felt relieved that even the new Oswald hadn’t betrayed his trust. “You fed information to that little miscreant, assuming that I’d hear. Or no, of course, you were in cahoots. Of course, you were in cahoots, well, either way, bravo Jim. I’d clap, but I have your gun in my hand.”

“How did this happen to you? How did you become this?” Jim questioned, in the exact fashion Edward has assumed he would. It was classic Jim Gordon. He needed to understand how he didn’t see this coming. To try and understand if he could’ve prevented it.

“You dummy. This is who I am. It was just finally admitting the truth to myself. Well, that and murdering some people,” _and gaining some helpful pieces of advice._

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe it. Why, Jim? ‘Cause it would make you incompetent to know that I was right under your nose the whole time? Or you don’t want to admit that there’s a monster in all of us? Because you, of all people, should know that! That’s what made it so easy to frame you!” Edward chuckles, his confidence unwavered.

“I was your friend.”

“Were you, Jim? Were you my friend? Or did you just pity me? Oh, poor, weird little Ed with his little silly wordplay and his little riddles.”

“You’re completely insane.”

“Yeah, it’s probably easier for you to think that.” Edward taunts. “How about one last riddle for old time’s sake? A nightmare for some, for others, a saviour, I come. My hands, cold and bleak, it’s the warm hearts they seak _._ ”

“Death.”

“Right again.” Edward waves his alternate hand as a farewell, grip tight on the pistol. “Good-bye, Jim.”

“Drop the gun.” Barnes barrels through the trees, his own gun trained on Edward. “Drop it!”

Edward notices as he’s surrounded by officers. _No, no, no, nononono._ “Captain Barnes, I was… I- I’m arresting Jim.”

“Stop it, Ed.” Barnes never lowers his weapon. “We heard everything. Now drop the gun and get on your knees.”

“No, this is, this- I- He’s… he’s-“

“Last chance.”

The only logical conclusion Edward has is to drop the pistol and make a run for it, misjudging the steps he takes, and remembering why he hated that damn forest to begin with, as he trips on a root and face plants into the snow. Turning over, Edward raises his hands in the air, indicating his surrender. “Oh, crud.”

* * *

The anger that stems from collected anguish for love and ambition lost, is enough to send Oswald into a drunken stupor that results in tearing up most of the cushions in the room where his step-mother rotted. Flinging much of the furniture around, none of it resulting in any reprieve. He sat back at the dining table, turning on the television as he flickered through several news channels.

He still hadn’t learned much of the events that had occurred over the last number of months, but as he came across channel seven news, he forced himself into sobriety.

‘ _The masked assassin that attacked the GCPD earlier tonight has been identified as former mayor Theo Galavan. Now there were reports that the assassin was forced off the roof, then fell right over there, then stood up in front of all of us. And it was him, Theo Galavan, alive. And from what we know, he’s responsible for three officer fatalities. We also learned that-_ ‘

Oswald would have to bide his time, but he saw it for the opportunity it was – the return to his rightful seat by making an example of the one who had eluded him. Since, Jim, had stripped him of the pleasure of killing him, he was given another chance. As he waited for more to develop, he severed the head from his stepmother, intent to display her for the trophy she was, and the key she had been to unlocking his formerly incapacitated self.

He placed a call to have three of the previous servants return to the mansion, under the pretext of substantially higher pay, and to not be concerned for the Van Dahl’s whereabouts. Oswald makes more calls, announcing his eventual return to those he could still control, primarily Victor Zsasz, who is more than _thrilled_ from the call. Penguin’s methods and ambitions had grown on him.

All of this was further accented by the alliance he gains from Butch when Tabitha is gravely injured by her brother, Oswald hurriedly puts into motion having Barbara stake out the GCPD for any insight into Theo’s whereabouts. Finally, the call comes, signalling that Theo Galavan’s uber-villain persona has gone back to finish the job of killing billionaire boy Bruce Wayne.

It’s the drive back after blowing Theo Galavan to smithereens that Butch feels prompted to ask for Penguin’s forgiveness.

“I never wanted her to die, I never thought they’d do it.” Butch solemnly comments, from the back of the Porsche as they drive the short distance back to the mansion.

“Can’t exactly change it now, can we, Butch,” Oswald replies dismissively, glancing around at the passing trees. He had already thoroughly threatened the driver to never breathe a word of anything said in the car, not that he needed much persuasion. His family had allegedly worked for the Van Dahl’s for centuries, keeping secrets was their forte. “But, we are _square_ , like you said.”

“What do we do now?”

“We?”

“Boss, Gotham’s underbelly worked better under your care.” Butch relinquished any power he still had with ease, this being the bigger part of his apology. “I don’t know how you never caved under all this shit, but it’s not the same without you at the helm.”

“Never would have figured you for the sentimental type.”

“Yeah, that’s what people keep tellin’ me.” Butch sighed, taking that to mean Penguin would happily resume his previous duties.

When they’re back at the mansion, Butch is tasked with retrieving all the newspapers and news recordings of Gotham’s happenings over the last three months. Oswald mulls over them for a number of days. Occasionally he takes a break from reading, pausing to provide Barbara with an affirmation that _she does, in fact, have amazing taste in art_ , as she purchases pieces on his behalf and replaces ones on the mansion’s walls he’d been sure were originally chosen by Grace.

Oswald pauses on the next series of articles, pictures depicting defaced paintings at Gotham’s Museum of Art, highlighted by green question marks. They talk about the ‘ _Question Bomber_ ’, how the criminal tried to blow up Union Station, only to be thwarted by Jim and the GCPD. Then, _somehow_ , Jim Gordon is the one to be arrested, after killing a fellow officer. Oswald clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, letting out a chuckle that pulls a questioning glance from Barbara.

“What is it, Ozzie?”

“Jim Gordon went to Blackgate for a series of crimes he couldn’t have possibly committed.”

Barbara smiles, knowingly glancing at the stack of newspapers Oswald still hadn’t gotten to. “That’s not even the half of it, baby.”

Oswald gives her a slanted stare, moving back to the assemblage of newspapers. Finally, reaching the moment in time he would’ve just been reawakened after his father’s passing.

“Then he was _broken_ out of jail?” Oswald stated incredulously, interrupting Barbara as she rifled through a decor magazine.

“Has some truly devoted friends, that one.” Barbara nodded.

Oswald continued onto the next article, talking of Jim Gordon’s innocence as the true bomber and cop killer had been caught. An article about how GCPD’s award-winner forensic scientist had turned _insane,_ causing Oswald to feel like an electric shock had ripped through him. “Wait, wait, _wait._ ”

“Hm?” Barbara looked up again from her magazine. “Oh _yes_ , but you already knew Jim hadn’t been capable of committing those crimes.” Barbara proceeded to shrug, “I never would’ve figured it would be Eddie that had a screw loose, Jim always spoke fondly of his work.”

 _‘What if they strip you of everything that makes you whole? They send people to Arkham to hide them, to treat them with therapy unfit for the average population.’_ Oswald recalls Ed’s concern for Arkham.

He’d been right, _of course_ , Arkham had taken everything from Oswald. Hugo Strange had ensured that. He had done the same damage with Barbara Kean. It didn’t seem that she had suffered to the same extreme, she didn’t need a switch to change her demeanour. Oswald speculated that Tabitha likely had something to do with it; whether that meant she brought Barbara back to her old state of lunacy with her own techniques (similar to how she had ‘ _fixed_ ’ Butch), or just the fact that Tabitha was hospitalized brought enough stress to Barbara to push her back into her true nature.

He worried for Ed, thinking of how Hugo Strange had treated Oswald. He worried that the longer Ed was there, the likelihood he could lose everything that made him… _Ed_. There’s a fondness as he reads through the articles again, travelling back to the initial ones about the station bombing and the museum, now from the perspective that it had been Ed who had planned it all out.

 _Brilliant_ , _yet_ _juvenile_ , Oswald thought. Ultimately, he was sure Ed’s ego outdid him.

After all, Ed still had _so_ much to learn from him.

Oswald knew he should be more conscious of the fact Ed had barely given him the time of day when he’d gone back to the apartment after being released from Arkham. He’d been provided context now as to why Ed had been so busy, but he had electively chosen to be particularly cold towards Oswald. He felt bitterness about that last interaction as if everything that had occurred while he’d been housed at Ed’s apartment had been a manipulative whim. He resolved it couldn’t have possibly meant so little, even though there was the strong chance it had.

Oswald had been repeatedly shown that he wasn’t meant to escape with happiness. A perpetual state of sorrow was where he’d endure, and he couldn’t carry an expectation of ever hoping to feel true solace. It only meant disappointment. Even in his _brief_ fevered state outside of psychosis, he wasn’t allowed to have a family. Being _good_ still treated him to death. Those he held dear would only continue to be punished.

He needed to start to reign in his outward portrayal of emotions, but that was a feat within itself.

* * *

All of Edward’s work had been a house of cards. He’d been _bested_ , by the likes of Jim Gordon. There was an immeasurable amount of disdain as he was given the Arkham jumper. He’d felt as if he needed to contain every violent urge in those moments. Everyone around him was _beneath_ him. They were easy to corral and subjugate, those most insane were so translucent.

It was Dr Strange and Miss Peabody that eluded him. They weren’t malleable to his demands, they didn’t see him as anything other than being what he was: _‘Insane_.’

But- they tasked him to Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox! Surely, that had made it seem like he was _worth_ something to them. He’d be able to continue to assist with such things, having the elusive Chief of Psychiatry in his back pocket was a reward in itself. He’d be released on good behaviour in no time. Or, perhaps he’d be given answers to the mysteries from Indian Hill. That was merely a reminder of the larger scheme unfolding at the hand.

He was worthless here. He’d been regularly sedated, forcing his thoughts to behave or come back in fragments. It exhausted him to little end, his brain trying to work out the broken synapses, attempting to understand why half of him felt crippled.

There was also the mystery of who _truly_ ran Wayne Enterprises.

“So, just between us, who does run Wayne Enterprises?” Edward asks, not immediately recognizing the direction Strange is leading him.

“I could tell you, but then I would have to lobotomize you.” Dr Strange deadpans, as is his normal manner of speaking.

Edward laughs since that’s all he can do. He can’t think of a way to breach Dr Strange’s cold exterior. Judging by the insanity in the basement, he’s certain he’d never be able to. “Gotcha. So, moving forward, sir, I would be more than happy to help you with any of your other cases.”

“You would be a wonderful addition to my staff, Ed, a _wonderful_ addition,” Dr Strange sighs, “if you were only sane.”

“No, seriously-“

“Yes, seriously. You have been very useful, and we arrogant physicians have much to learn from a madman like you.” He nods towards his subordinates waiting near Edward’s cell. “But not _that_ much.”

All of Edward’s questions remained unanswered, as he's pushed back into his cell. Edward was merely a morbid curiosity in the eyes of Hugo Strange. There were already textbooks written to talk about Edward’s inner dilemmas, his constant torment of id versus ego, his obsessive-compulsive need to have the answers to all of life’s questions, and finally Edward Nygma’s weak conscience; his sociopathic tendencies heightened when his ego was most prominent.

Hugo Strange was most interested in Edward’s Machiavellian nature, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. He would _have_ to revisit it, recounting how the Court of Owls were in his ear about the importance of inmate D-171. He was fortunate Edward hadn’t made it too far into the basement, he surely would’ve recognized some of his _creations._

Particularly one that would’ve caused insurmountable pain.

* * *

The last people Edward expected to see pulling him from his cell are Jim and Lucius, Jim aggressively yanking him towards the hidden elevator shaft he would rather avoid.

“Can you bypass the wiring for the security protocols and get us down there?” Lucius asks as they round the corner.

“Yes, of course, I know how, but what is with all the hoo-ha?” Edward retorts, acutely aware of how tight Jim’s grasp is around his arm. “What is the rush here?”

“Just do it.” Jim releases him, pushing him towards the mechanism.

Edward _can_ use this to his advantage though. There’s an obvious strain on Jim’s voice. “What do I get if I do it?”

Jim groans, Edward has no clue they’ll be blown to bits if he doesn’t help them. “You get to live.”

“Fair enough.”

Lucius is the one who brings him back to his cell, happy to imprison him, while Edward fusses the whole way.

“I don’t belong here, y’know. Just a misunderstanding.” Edward pleads at the barred window.

“Mr Nygma, you find amusement in the torture and pain of others, do you not?” Lucius decides to entertain, earning a look of bewilderment from the inmate. “There is nowhere else best suited for you than _right here._ ”

Sirens continue to ring above Edward’s head, as Lucius leaves, some impending doom was upon the asylum, but no one cared for the inmates. Edward was a serialized identity convicted for being _not good enough_ to avoid arrest. Now, he would die in this prison, fortified by its Indian Hill terrors.

At some point, the ringing stops.

At some point, whatever unrest had fallen on Arkham was just a memory. Weeks dragged on, as the guards were replaced with more suitable ones. One guard isn’t easy to manipulate, which bothers Edward. He’s seen to it that most allow him to spend more time outside than the other inmates, but this guard doesn’t play into his hands.

“It’s good for my well-being, see.” Edward attempts, as the guard grasps his elbow, forcefully raising him from the bench just outside Arkham’s doors. It gives him the perfect angle of the tall gates, tempting him _constantly_. “Otherwise I just… feel so _depressed_. This place makes me clinical!”

“You came here that way.”

“Cash, was it? Aaron?” That earns a twitch from the regularly composed staff member. Edward had weened his way into one of the computer labs at some point, his observation of a careless guard had earned him a username and password to successfully infiltrate Arkham’s human resources listing. “I’m not insane. At the wrong place at the wrong time, thought my life was endangered, all that jazz.”

“Is this what works for everyone else?” Officer Cash released a low chortle, yanking him reluctantly into the building, Edward’s flailing arms nearly clothesline another inmate as they move along Arkham’s rebuilt hallways. “You get as much time outside as everyone else, house rules.”

They’re at Edward’s cell now. The doors to all the cells had been replaced during the last number of weeks; something about reinforced steel and new legislation sent down from a still-vacant Mayor’s Office. From what Edward had read from an upside-down newspaper (the inmates weren’t privy to the scrupulous dribble of Gotham’s gazette any longer), Mayor James was still recovering from the attempt on his life at a rehabilitation facility upstate.

There was also the matter of escaped Indian Hill monsters scurrying around Gotham’s streets. The newspapers were relentless about the GCPD’s ineptitude. He read of how bounty hunters were the only ones taking the threat seriously. Read how Oswald Cobblepot played into the population’s fear, fueling their disbelief of GCPD. Read how this all made Harvey Bullock seem incompetent as interim Captain.

Officer Cash is about to close the door to Edward’s cell, which lately felt like a tomb to its occupant, before lifting a finger into the air. “Ah, yes. Almost forgot.” He tossed a box towards Edward. “I selectively chose not to rifle through its contents, so don’t say I never did anything nice.”

Edward’s reflexes had been increasingly inhibited by the medication he was forced to endure, nearly dropping the box as it collided with his chest. He stared down confusedly. There was no return address, wrapped in brown paper, tightly taped together at its edges. It was small, and somewhat distressing considering Edward’s small stint in the crime world, he had likely gained a few enemies outside of Arkham’s gates. He slowly unwrapped the item, finding a cardboard box, and inside of that a… _cell phone_?

He hurriedly turned it on, also curiously concerned as to how he was going to charge it. A simple text alerted him once the phone came to life. ‘ _Tuesday.’_

It was Saturday now, or was it? It might’ve been Monday, the drugs seemed to place a fog on Edward’s sense of time. It might have also taken a couple of days before he’d been given the package. He cautiously sent a reply, ‘?’

‘ _Today._ - _O_ ’

Edward beamed. He powered down the phone, intent to maintain its’ battery life. He found himself pacing around his cell, even though it’s only one sole hour, it feels like _several._ He’s idling chewing his fingernails, despite the hushed whisper telling him that it’s a _nasty_ habit. The familiar sound of a plastic baton at his door pulls him from the habit, a nurse and Officer Cash entering his cell.

“I don’t want to have to restrain you like last time, Nygma.” Officer Cash pats the baton against his opposite hand in a manner that’s meant to threaten the inmate.

Edward’s too distracted to fight against the nurse as she pressed the needle into his vein. He recognizes the warmth as the drug enters his bloodstream, bringing an immediate cloud to the room. His thoughts are murkier than they were before, but he still can feel obscured joy. He’s lead towards the bed in the corner of the room, his feet dangling at its' end, falling into a slumber.

At some point, he’s pulled to daily group therapy, as everyone in the circle is forced to express something pertinent to their day. Edward’s focus is intermittent, nothing serves him any excitement with the state Arkham is in. With the absence of Hugo Strange, the asylum had turned reputable. He’d longed for something dramatic to occur, but nothing changed. The guards were fair in their punishments, the nurses ensured they followed all of the directions set forth by the new Chief Psychiatrist.

Edward doesn’t talk in therapy, he never has. On its conclusion, the nurse prepares all of them to receive another needle, and then it’s more forced rest.

“If you showed more progress, Mr Nygma, we could look at extending the time you are allotted outdoors.” One of the newer doctor's positions, but Edward sees it as the manipulative tactic it is. The doctor makes remarks on Edward’s file, leaving his cell when Edward doesn’t say a word.

He’s not _insane_. He was surrounded by _morons_. The conversations they had in group therapy were so trivial. They often spoke of mental trauma, burdened when they’d been children. Most of them talked of the abuse they suffered at the hands of their parents, or an extended family member. They talked about how _killing_ was the only way they felt alive.

Edward didn’t relate. He never did. He didn’t feel debilitated by his past. If anything it had empowered him to be where he was now. Sure, it was not an ideal circumstance. He hadn’t gone through life imagining he’d be imprisoned in Arkham for an indefinite amount of time, but at least he’d given Gotham a taste of the person he could be. He wouldn’t have been this person if it hadn’t been for his past. The permanent markings on his chest and back were enough of a memory without _talking_ about it. What a frivolous venture.

He succumbed to the drugs as they filtered through his system, wishing this day would come to an end, forgetful of the texts he’d received earlier.

“On your feet, Nygma.” Officer Cash rouses him, prodding him with the end of his baton next to the inmate’s bed. “It’s been two months since I got here, and this is the first time you’ve had a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Edward asks, voice groggy.

Cash grunts as a response, prodding him again with the baton. “I wouldn’t want to make a former inmate wait if I were you.”

Edward doesn’t need to be told twice.

Oswald rests his cane to the right against the table as he nestles into the cold, metal seat. His patience was already tested coming back to the wretchedness that was Arkham Asylum. He had successfully bribed one of the newest additions to Arkham’s roster to allow Ed visitation rights and managed to entice the guard to have the visitor’s room to themselves. He preferred the silent privacy.

Oswald could tell right away how lethargic Ed was. Officer Cash brought him in, a grip on his elbow as if attempting to keep Ed from falling over. Oswald was at his feet in seconds, a defensive stance coming over him. If there hadn’t been an ominous air to the room, there was now. Oswald reverberated next to the table, the telltale urge to conduct a murderous rampage against the guard was quietened when he witnessed Ed smile at him.

“You!” Edward rushed forward, arms outstretched, but immediately pressed them to his sides. The inmates had been told numerous times they were never allowed to touch others. He stopped a foot in front of Oswald. He couldn’t help but take Oswald in, his entire disposition was a _different_ persona from any other time Ed had seen him.

“Me,” Oswald reassured, hazarding a grip on Ed’s arm in attempts to relay that he was in fact _real_.

Their first visit had been brief. Oswald could tell Ed was barely lucid, likely over-medicated even by Arkham’s standards. After catching him nearly falling asleep in his hands for the third time, Oswald motions for the guard that their time is done.

“Don’t leave.” Oswald feels physically pained from the desperation in Ed’s voice.

“I’ll be back,” he assures, uncertain if Ed even understands. He helps Ed to his feet, grip on his arm loosening at the gate, reluctantly, as the guard takes over.

A nurse is coming around the corner, needle in hand. She is genuinely startled when a cane obstructs her path. Oswald presses it against her stomach, physically pushing her backwards in the hallway.

“Miss-“ Oswald peers down at her name tag attached to her breast pocket, gaze coming back up to meet hers, signature charming smile in place. “Jeffries, how would you like to make an extra five hundred dollars for every needle you _don’t_ stick Edward Nygma with?”


	7. Home

It’s been _one hundred and twenty-nine days, six hundred and thirty-two minutes, and twelve seconds_ since Edward was admitted into Arkham. Edward was counting… because it was the _only_ thing he could resolve to do.

From the tiles on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. Counting how many nurses Arkham had on site, how many guards worked during the day versus night, how many bars were on his way to group therapy, how many inmates were at breakfast, lunch, and dinner – and most importantly, counting down the seconds before he knew to power up a certain cell phone.

Edward’s sense of time had returned with a vengeance once the nurse had started to find _whatever_ excuse she could to not give Edward his one of three daily doses. It was one of the few things on his short-list for entertainment that Edward had in recent days; watching her repeatedly fumble with the needle, somehow managing to drop it whenever she came close or pretending to administer it and pouring the liquid onto the floor.

He was hard-pressed to find a reason to think it wasn’t entirely coincidental that when she had stopped stabbing him with a needle, had coincided with the first time Oswald had visited.

Edward took out the phone, holding down the power button, waiting for it to illuminate, and then placed it back into the hiding spot.

He should be grateful, but he was far too self-aware in this state. Now, the days ebbed in a way that made him feel more trapped than he ever had before. In the confines of his cell was the worst, there was literally no escape from anything – the voices… and more recently, the ever-taunting visual hallucinations.

Miss Kringle had yet to fester into a visual, but she was in his ear at every turn. Officer Dougherty regularly took a perch on the small table in the room, which looked so battered it probably would’ve collapsed with his true weight.

‘ _Rude_.’

He constantly commented on Edward’s dishevelled state, the way his hair was so unkempt, the way it looked like Edward had turned to skin and bones, and-

 _Ding_!

‘ _Eight o’clock, on the dot. Always so excited, aren’t you, Eddie?_ ’ Dougherty taunted, as Edward retracted the cell phone from inside a slit on the side of his mattress. He could faintly hear Dougherty continue to mock the way he perked up when he flipped open the phone, smile plastered to his face. Dougherty turned to white noise once he held a distraction, and if he paid more attention, he probably would’ve realized his victim’s hallucination tended to disappear entirely during those moments.

_‘?’_

It was a different phone number, Edward noted. This wasn’t unusual, it had been four weeks of their back and forth messaging. Edward knew Oswald used a different burner phone every couple of days. He also recognized the text for what it was, asking how Edward was doing. They had followed the same pattern after the first visit, Oswald started the same sequence to the messages at eleven o’clock in the morning, and eight o’clock in the evening, always solely concerned for Edward’s well-being.

He probably should’ve been grateful for that too.

‘ _Indignant_.’

‘ _Well, tomorrow!’_

Edward started to type out variations of replies, settling on: ‘ _Counting down_ ’, before powering down the device.

Oswald had only been able to visit once a week, and he’d been told that he wasn’t allowed to visit more than that. Edward took that to mean Oswald had probably threatened everyone in the building at some point to only be told no repeatedly for that request.

Edward didn’t want to be more of a hindrance than he already was, he knew Oswald didn’t like coming to Arkham. He knew despite his composure, Oswald was hardly _calm_ when he visited. He was somewhat thankful that Hugo Strange had disappeared when he had, he was certain there would’ve been a bloodbath if the Penguin and Strange were in the same building, likely resulting in another incarceration.

* * *

Despite Arkham being crippling to his intrigue, Edward continued to find it easier to bear than the GCPD. He’d been somewhat thankful that Jim Gordon had escaped when he had, around the time when the GCPD had reached its peak in interest to Edward. Nothing that came across his desk had been a riddle to him, there were answers at every crime scene, evidence blatantly left behind, leaving obvious suspects.

Nothing had been an elusive mystery, waiting to be unravelled, and then solved to completion. He likely would’ve started his own new slew of crimes just to see the gears shift in Detective Bullock’s brain. Alas, he was here now. Somehow, he found more to relate with in Arkham than he ever had anywhere prior.

Edward had proved to be useful in many regards – in conflict resolution when there’d been far too many personalities in the room – in seeing to that the inmates worked cohesively rather than lethally – even going so far to understand the inmates better than the staff did. He couldn’t count on his fingers how many times Cash had actually complimented him on preventing murder on the premises.

Other than the weekly visits Edward so desperately looked forward to, his only reprieve in Arkham was that (despite being labelled _insane_ ) he wasn’t immediately looked down upon.

Not to be mistaken with the way Edward still looked down on everyone else, though.

In a way, he had corralled the inmates to respect him, in their own individual manner. It was strange, to not be immediately dismissed by a group. He’d gone years of feeling like his words were antiquated, even though he was always so helpful to the GCPD’s investigations.

Edward was certain they’d never be able to replace his brilliance.

The next morning, Edward had successfully stopped a brawl between Nigel and the Frogman, leading to Cash serving him with another compliment, and a prize.

“I think we can allow an extra half an hour outside, don’t you agree Mr Nygma?” Cash offered, as he led Edward back to his cell.

Edward halted a few feet away from that dreadful door, an idea coming to mind. “Actually, I’d rather compromise by being allowed to visit outside with Mr. Penguin today, _please_.” He had learned that Aaron Cash rewarded respect, with respect. He’d been trying to get into his good graces for weeks, and Oswald had given him the idea that if he was helpful with Cash, perhaps he’d be helpful with Ed.

“A change of scenery never hurt anybody.” Cash shrugged, opening the door to Edward’s cell, and held up his baton to indicate for the inmate to enter. Edward didn’t need to be told anything more than once, most of their interactions had been wordless those days. Cash hadn’t been a hard person to read. Getting on his good side had been a point of entertainment for Edward, but interest had fizzled out entirely once he’d achieved his goal.

As had been with the texts, Oswald had made a point of showing up at the same time. The day of the week tended to change, but never the time.

Except for today.

Oswald was thirteen hundred and eighty-four seconds late, and Edward couldn’t help but glare at the Arkham gates from the bench he was situated at. He hated that he couldn’t just simply… walk out. He felt the watchful gaze of the guards around him, but that didn’t prevent him from trying to imagine every escape scenario possible. He’d already done this a hundred times; it was part of the reason why he wanted as much time as possible outside.

The Arkham Asylum gateway squealed from ill-maintenance as the mechanism swung the bars open. A black, tinted-windowed Cadillac limousine pulled into the complex, parking rather illegally just a couple of car lengths into the grounds. One of the guards moved up to the driver window, but immediately withdrew himself and his complaint once Oswald stepped out from the rear end of the vehicle. Another individual stepped out after him, following behind Oswald as he moved towards the asylum entrance doors. Edward recognized him as Victor Zsasz, from the photos he had collaged eons ago.

Edward attempted to raise from the bench, wanting to wave and signal that Oswald didn’t need to go inside, but he hissed from the immediate discomfort, forgetting that his hands we’re cuffed and chained to the centre of the bench. The clanging of the chains against the metal had been enough to warrant Oswald’s attention.

Edward had taken to noting Oswald’s attire at each visit. They were long past the days of Oswald wearing loungewear. At some point, Edward had started to analyze Oswald’s choice for fashion, being like an almost a security blanket for the kingpin. It was something he had probably considered before, but knowing how Oswald had looked in previous states, and in his ever-present boredom, it stuck out to him like a sore thumb.

Being outside, the black overcoat Oswald wore had a gold paisley accent that seemed to glimmer in the late spring sun. Edward took in the black pinstripe suit underneath, single-breasted, no doubt cashmere from the look of the texture, the waistcoat was a lighter mauve today, from what he could tell. Edward glanced south, trousers matched the blazer, obviously. Outfit complete with recently waxed (judging by the shine) wingtip oxfords.

The edges of Oswald’s lips lifted into a smile, as he trekked over to the bench, and situated himself centred to Edward on the opposite side, unbuttoning his blazer as he took a seat. Zsasz took up post a couple of feet behind them, next to another guard, propping an elbow on the frightened man’s shoulder.

Oswald looked down at the handcuffs with displeasure. He snapped gloved fingers in Cash’s direction, who rolled his eyes instantly and sighed, walking towards them.

“With all due respect, Mr Cobblepot, I let him visit with you outside, I can’t also allow a convict to be outside without handcuffs.” Cash started to argue, noticing that Oswald’s fingers curled into a fist. “If you want, we can move this inside.”

“No need.” Oswald knew Ed _craved_ time outside, he turned to look over his shoulder at Zsasz, the assassin taking his cue, removing a pair of mini bolt cutters from his pocket with his free hand, then raising the tool next to the other guard’s ear. “But, with all due respect, it’s either _you_ take them off, or we _break_ them off.”

Cash sighed, defeated. He had already accepted he wouldn’t have been able to say no, but he wanted to be able to say he tried. He didn’t need to get one of the other guards injured in the process. There was no use fighting with someone who could make his life hell outside of work, not while he had a pregnant wife at home. He moved over to the bench, pulling the keys from the inside of his jacket pocket, releasing the handcuffs from Edward’s wrists.

Cash pointedly set the timer on his watch for an hour, from next to them, before turning around to begin a pace around the yard.

Edward stretched out his fingers, wrapping one hand around his wrist. He truly detested having his wrists bound, they were always clasped too tight, leaving residual marks, and pinching at his skin.

“You brought a bodyguard.” Edward leaned forwards, crossing his arms freely on top of the bench, resting his chin on them. He lengthened a leg underneath the bench, inadvertently resting it against one of Oswald’s. “You also didn’t bring your cane.”

“Victor always accompanies me, just normally waits in the hallway. Gotham hasn’t been particularly safe these days.”

“When has it ever been…” Edward muttered, looking down, beginning to count the quatrefoil styled holes in the bench. He really didn’t enjoy this habit of his, it had just sort of… started out of the blue. Out of the boredom.

“Ed, there are four hundred and seventy-three holes in the bench.” Oswald pointed out (as it had been a fact Ed shared the week prior), proceeding to place both his hands into the crooks of his elbows, and matching Ed as he placed his arms on the bench. He had grown accustomed to busying his hands while he visited, in attempts to not reach out and comfort Ed’s deteriorating state. “I apologize for being late.”

“Were you?” Edward asked lowly, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“I’m sure you could tell me down to the second how late I was-“

“Fifteen hundred and thirty-one seconds, if we’re being specific.“

“Yes, well, things have been chaotic, monsters running amuck and such.”

“I wouldn’t know. You are my only source of news, after all.”

Oswald’s lips thinned into a line. He was consciously aware of how irritable Ed was and wasn’t entirely sure how to make it better. He tried to distract Ed with stories from Gotham, but that just seemed to frustrate him – possibly because Ed couldn’t be a contributing factor.

Edward knew he was terrible company to have, but he was pleased each time Oswald returned. He wanted a change of circumstances, especially knowing that he wanted to be a part of Oswald’s circle. He hadn’t understood the gravity of that desideratum until that morning, actually. How he related to Arkham’s inmates had provided him with a warmth that there were likely others he could get along with, and inevitably _control_ ; Oswald carried those same ideologies, knowing how easy it was to control a broken population.

Oswald being back in a position of power illuminated Edward’s waning candle of fascination. He had worried it would’ve been nearly extinguished when Oswald had been released from Arkham – reborn and all. Yet, here Oswald was, coming out on top as he had many times before, with a fortune at his disposal, and Gotham at its knees with fear over monsters.

Though there was the matter of Fish Mooney, who was a clear adversary to Oswald, likely kept him up at night in fear. It was the primary topic of conversation as of late, as Oswald desperately worried that she was plotting his demise, and _who knows_ what Strange had done with her, given what he’d done to Galavan.

Indian Hill was a muted topic around Arkham, all of the staff pretended as if nothing had been amiss, even when the GCPD came in for interviews. They all acted as if Strange and Peabody had kept the secret from everyone, except those who had disappeared with them, and for all anyone knew – it was the truth.

“Why would she let me live?” Oswald asked at some point.

“You are more valuable alive,” Edward replied simply. He had tried to come up with a different answer every time Oswald had asked, but it never seemed to satisfy his curiosity.

Oswald huffed, leaning back slightly, his leg brushing against Edward’s as he stretched. “I would visit more if I could.”

“I wouldn’t want you spending more of your earned freedom, back here, even if you could. I do appreciate the gesture though.” Edward lifted his chin from his arm, stretching his left arm out towards Oswald, retracting it as he recalled the _rules_. “How is the weakness in your shoulder and arm?”

“Fully recovered.”

“You’re still doing the nerve exercises I showed you?”

“Only because you keep telling me to.”

“Even if you think it’s fully healed, it’s still important to do.”

“Yes, thank you, doctor.” Oswald rolled his eyes enthusiastically, tapping a foot on the pavement, and refraining from making a childish gesture towards him. “Have they been treating you well this week?”

“They have,” Edward pointed towards Cash, who had started his fourth circle around the yard. “Especially that one.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, thanks to your advice, of course.”

“I am always right, you know,” Oswald smirked, warily observing an inmate on the other side of the yard trying to build sand castles in the dirt. He detested this place more than anywhere else. “Have they been putting you through any sort of… therapy?”

Oswald hadn’t told Ed of his treatment in Arkham, it could be a conversation for another time when he wasn’t imprisoned. He didn’t want to worry the present-inmate of things that could happen, even though Strange was gone, and Ed was probably safe. It was something that still concerned Oswald, sometimes more than Fish’s existence.

“No, my nurse is still actively misplacing, or wasting my medication.” Ed gave him a knowing glance, even though Oswald made a point of not looking at him directly.

“Good to hear.” Oswald was sure the nurse didn’t mind the massive growth-spurt to her salary. “You should enlighten me on how Jim pulled one over you. I feel like the news articles don’t do the events the appropriate justice.”

Edward’s lips curled into the first sincere smile he had in quite a number of months, different from the smirks or the amused look he regularly featured. Oswald still wanted to know as much as he could, even though Edward had cast him aside, so selfishly.

He recounted the story, from the museum, to the station, to the crowbar with Jim’s fingerprints, to the anonymous call that led to suspicions of Jim, to Pinkney’s signature on the false chain of custody form, to killing Pinkney (highlighting the improvised riddle he had used, albeit not being his best, it had still been appropriate), to his subsequent arrest, and imprisonment. To life continuing at the precinct without Jim, to Leslie Thompkins losing their child.

“She didn’t come to work for weeks.” Edward paused in his storyline, thinking of the first time he’d seen her after the miscarriage. “Lee was always a positive light to the precinct when she came back… it wasn’t the same. She hardly spoke to anyone, and sort of… disappeared. Barnes said she took a sabbatical down south.”

Oswald recalled of the fearless doctor at Ed’s apartment, solely concerned for Jim’s well-being, and realized Ed had a fondness for her too, likely grown from their time at the GCPD. Edward digressed from his tangent, moving in to how Jim was sprung by Harvey (he assumed), how Jim believed whole-heartedly in Ed’s innocence, coming to him to have the anonymous call’s tape cleaned, as Ed had made the mistake of not knowing those calls were recorded. How he then made the mistake of not simply killing Jim in his apartment, likely due to their history, and wanting to drag out the main event. He then talked about how Jim got away, somehow getting help, and then sending Selina Kyle to play a part at the GCPD.

“Actually, Jim used you against me, saying he knew where you were, and that you’d tell him where the bodies were buried.”

“In the state I was in? I might have.” Oswald shrugged, lips tilting into a small frown. “I wouldn’t now.”

“I know Jim has been an important element to your evolution, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had.”

That perturbed Oswald though, not knowing how much reliance he would’ve had in who could be the better ally. Jim and he had always been in conflict, he teetered on morality and justice in a way that proved minimally beneficial. In some way, he knew Jim would always be a hindrance rather than an advantageous entity. Ed though, Oswald had seen a path, rather obscured by present circumstances, but nonetheless, a path they could work together in amicable synchronicity; whereas he and Jim would always be diametrically opposed.

Ed didn’t seem to catch Oswald’s distraction with his own thoughts, continuing on his story of returning to the scene of where he’d buried Miss Kringle and the hunter, being caught by a mass of GCPD officers, and then subsequently tripping on a root into the snow to top all of it off. That brought Oswald’s attention back, as he shook his head lightly, wondering if he’d heard that correctly.

“Yes, what a pain.” Edward sighed, lacing his fingers into the holes of the bench and leaning backwards.

Oswald started to laugh, something Edward wasn’t sure he had ever truly heard. There’s a brief moment where he doesn’t understand what was so funny about the finale to his story, recalling how embarrassing it had been, but as Oswald brought an arm around his stomach, still in stitches, Edward supposed it had been humorous. He released a chuckle, mostly from the sound of laughter being contagious, especially in such a dismal location.

“I’m glad my humiliation brings you so much joy,” Edward muttered, as Oswald’s brought a finger to his eye to remove a tear, laughter slowed.

“Well, you did learn from all of that, right?” Oswald asked, an entertained smile in place.

“This wasn’t the outcome I had in mind.” Edward sighed, looking up at the fortress that was Arkham. “I made several mistakes.”

“Are they really mistakes if you learn from them?” The kingpin pointed out, echoing Ed’s own advice used against him from so long ago when he had needed to hear it.

Ed seemed startled by the rehashing of his words, considering them. “I’m- this place, I’m stuck here.”

“Temporary setback.”

“Dent had me sent here for life.”

“He did the same to me, and yet... here I am.”

“The longer I’m here, the worse things are-“ Edward leaned his head into his hands, thoughts becoming a whirlwind in his mind, wishing he could leave, get into that limousine with Oswald, change the course of all of this, find a better version of himself to work through. “It’s too quiet here, it’s too- the things I’m hearing- _seeing_.”

Oswald’s brows furrowed in confusion, not connecting what Ed meant. “With the other inmates?”

“No, with- just-“

“Time’s up.” Cash materialized beside Ed, tapping the baton against his shoulder. “Let’s go, Nygma.”

And then there’s that same desperate, pleading look that Ed gives Oswald every time they’re forced apart, and it’s always more than he can bear. It’s almost enough for Oswald to be glad he’s not allowed to visit more than once a week, because he’s not entirely sure how much more restraint he has in not just murdering everyone within the vicinity, and proceeding to break Ed out of the asylum. He was sure Zsasz would encourage the activity, just so he could participate.

Oswald watches as Cash places the restraints on Ed’s wrists, _too tightly_ , as per usual, feeling more contempt towards all of this. He stays seated at the bench for longer than necessary, attempting to evaluate whatever Ed had tried to say, and waiting until he hears the doors close before getting up, gait exceptionally heavy as he walks the distance to the waiting vehicle.

Zsasz follows him, after giving the other guard a warning wink. He catches up next to the shorter male, noting the air of irritation, as Oswald plops down into the leather seats with a huff. The driver lowers the divider, waiting for a destination.

“Barbara Kean’s,” Zsasz states, as Oswald crosses his arms over his chest. The driver tips his hat, as he pushes the divider up in silent acknowledgement.

“Has Gabe-“

“Still no leverage on the new chief.” Zsasz interrupts, knowing where Oswald’s head was any time they left Arkham.

“Maybe we need a different approach.” Oswald watched outside as they reversed out of the institution, grateful to be leaving. “We should look at a way to get him evicted from his post.”

“There is a rumour that he’s fond of the female patients.”

“Sounds like an advantageous affliction.” Oswald picked out his phone from his pocket, fingers flying over keys as he sends a text to Gabe. Minutes pass as he waits for a reply, glancing outside.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before, boss.”

Oswald tensed, gaze still intent on the passing trees. “Focus on the task at hand, Victor. You told Butch to meet us there?”

“Yes. He put up quite the fuss.”

“And you’re sure Tabitha is staying at Barbara’s?”

“Our informant hasn’t been wrong so far.”

“Yes, Miss Kyle is generally diligent when she’s offered the right incentive.” Oswald nodded; his accounts two thousand dollars lighter as evidence of her reward.

Forty minutes pass as the limousine eventually pulls up in front of a large apartment complex, Oswald recognizing it from a venture he’d made quite a long time ago when he’d shown up as ‘ _Peter_ ’ to see Jim. Butch was pacing outside the entrance, fidgeting with fingers in his mouth, pulling at the skin around his nails.

Tabitha had recovered from her injuries, much to Oswald’s disappointment. However, she wasn’t receptive to Butch’s rekindled alliance with Penguin. Barbara had to have Butch forcefully removed from her hospital room by security when he wouldn’t leave on Tabitha’s ask. She held both of her brother’s deaths over Oswald, even if one of them had been Jim, but the other had been done on his instruction, and Butch was the one who had executed him. She couldn’t look at Butch without that knowledge; even if Theo had changed towards the end of his life, he was still family.

She was a problem to Oswald, and now to Butch. Their relationship had ended sourly, but Butch held onto the hope that things could be fixed and didn’t seem capable of anything else other than wallowing in his own misery. Oswald had hoped bringing him here could bring closure, and push him to be a more motivated underling.

“Butch,” Oswald called out, as he took the stairs into the complex, Zsasz in tow, but Butch hadn’t stopped pacing. “Any time now.”

Butch stopped, looking up towards the large clock at the top of the tower, illuminating as dusk came over the city. “We can come back another day, why don’t we just come back another day?”

“Sources say the unit is sold, they’re going to move any day now.” Oswald placed a hand on the doorknob, twisting it as Butch finally gave in with a shake, jogging up the steps towards them.

The three travelled towards the elevator, Butch taking count of the lavish décor of the building, and the elevator attendant who selected the ‘ _Penthouse_ ’ level on Oswald’s command.

“Why would she sell this place?” Butch asked as the elevator dinged at the top level.

“Why does Miss Kean do anything she does?” Oswald countered, exiting the elevator first, and feeling mild nostalgia as he took the route to the apartment. “It’s why we’re here.”

Oswald raised a hand to knock on the door, but in the middle of swinging it down – the door opened. Her blonde hair freshly cut to her shoulders, navy blue romper coming up to her mid-thigh, outfit accessorized with a long gold necklace, Barbara stood with a smile, “three of my favourite boys, what a delight!”

Oswald peered over her shoulder, boxes lined the hallway. “Moving, Barbara?”

“I needed a change of pace, what can I say?” Barbara offered, stepping out of the way of the doorway and motioning for them to enter.

“We won’t be staying long-“ Oswald started.

“Where is she?” Butch interrupted, pushing passed them further into the apartment, making it as far as the living room. Oswald canted his head towards Butch, silently telling Zsasz to _bring him back_. Zsasz stalked after him, pulling the large man back by his collar.

“I do require an answer to that question.” Oswald pressed, as Butch tried to fight out of the assassin’s grip.

“Hm? Who?” Barbara feigned confusion, hand coming to her chest.

“Tabitha Galavan.” He replied with a hint of irritation, “I’m not here to kill her, I just want a guarantee that she won’t be coming back to finish any of her previous endeavours.”

“To kill you? You want a guarantee she won’t kill you?” Barbara stated bluntly, the mood shifted from her previous smiling composure. “We have better dreams to fulfil right now, Ozzie.”

“That’s not a-”

“That’s the best you’re going to get.” Barbara moved towards the kitchen, bare feet tapping on the tile. “I _can_ tell you she really doesn’t care to kill you right now.”

Oswald followed her, scanning around the kitchen for anything that could be used against him, or the subject of their conversation. He kept his distance as he leaned against the kitchen island, Barbara travelled to the cupboards, pulling out two glasses, and moving to the steel fridge.

“I won’t hesitate to kill her if I need to, even with our working relationship.”

“I don’t expect anything less.” Barbara pulled a bottle of rum from the freezer, pouring a glass for herself, and offering one to Oswald – who declined with a shake of his head. “It’s not poisoned,” Barbara assured, placing the glass to her lips, and downing the liquid. When Oswald still didn’t want to drink from his, she shrugged, taking his shot instead. “Tabby and I are consolidating our funds and putting the money to good use.”

Oswald waited for her to continue, but she poured another drink instead. “I’m going to need more than that.”

“We’re opening a club.” Barbara smiled enthusiastically, teetering the bottle on its edge against the countertop. “I was hoping we could make a toast to new business adventures, but you’re being a poor sport.”

“Fine, Barbara.” Oswald breathed out heavily, as she picked up the bottle, and happily poured a generous amount into the glass, trotting over to place it into his waiting palm.

“To new adventures.” Barbara raised the glass, as the kingpin did the same, both drinking at the same time, and slamming the glasses down.

“You’ll be under our care, then.” Oswald positioned. “For a fee, of course.”

“Not with this.” Barbara secured the cap on the bottle, placing it in the freezer. “We are fine on our own.”

“I do hope the alcohol you’ll be serving tastes better than that abysmal drink did.” Oswald stepped away from the counter, closing the distance between him and Barbara, leaning close. “Miss Kean, Gotham is a treacherous place for infant villains, allow us to lend a helping hand to old friends.”

“I’ll think about it.” Barbara rescinded with a scoff. “We are fully capable of taking care of ourselves.”

“I don’t doubt that, but yes, mull it over. Any competition in the area will think twice about causing you trouble if you have my backing.” Oswald took his leave, turning on his heel as he left the kitchen. “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

Butch gave a wayward glare at Barbara as they left, who mockingly placed a hand on her chest, mouthing ‘ _oh, so scary_ ’ while waving them out.

“He should be dead.” Tabitha came out from the pantry, once the front door shut, passing in front of Barbara and pulling her glass from the counter. She leaned towards the blonde, placing a chaste kiss on Barbara’s lips. “We could rule over this wretched town.”

“I thought that you hated this place?” Barbara hummed, teasingly pulling Tabitha’s lower lip between her teeth.

“You’d look good with a crown.” Tabitha took a step back, grip resting on Barbara’s wrist.

“I agree. Soon, my darling.”

Tabitha watched the sway of Barbara’s hips as she moved to the living room, sinking into the couch cushions, and scanning over the documents that rested on the glass coffee table. She held a fondness for all the many hats Barbara could wear, knowing she had strengths in areas normally overlooked by others.

When Barbara had been in a coma, imprisoned in Arkham again, Tabitha had accepted that she would probably never see her again. But, she’d come back to her, sought her out after being released. Tabitha had felt a tinge of guilt for leading on Butch, he’d been a valuable asset, but Barbara – she was different. She had so much locked potential, so much drive, their power together was more palpable than apart.

Tabitha didn’t have that in Butch, at least as things stood. She felt a sense of loyalty to him, and likely always would, but their time had passed. She couldn’t see forgiveness through him killing her brother.

* * *

“Management is changing.” Cash makes conversation with Edward as they’re travelling back to his cell from another visit with Oswald outside. “We’re going to have to move your visits back to inside the building.”

“What happened to the previous fellow?”

“Got caught with one of the ladies in east block,” Cash met Edward’s questioning glance. “Not a nurse, a patient.”

“Who’s replacing him?”

“Not sure. Don’t care either, I’m out of this joint this time next week. Paternal leave.”

That would explain the guard’s absurdly blissful mood as of late. Edward wasn’t content with this news, it meant getting a new guard who might treat him worse, or better, who knew. He wasn’t certain what would envelop Arkham, but in the coming days, it was quite clear – absolute chaos. The new warden had managed to unravel whatever progress had come to Arkham, whether it was because all the previous staff had been ruled under an iron fist, or just had a different level of respect for their boss – either way it did not show with the new one.

 _Quimby Loses Control_ – Gotham Gazette read one morning, likely leaked from one of the staff. Charles Quimby typically stayed in his office, didn’t make a point of executing many orders, and the nurses eventually felt too threatened to administer the proper doses for most of the patients. Those who were too dangerous to be let out of their cells without some sort of mild sedative, were just... kept there. Guards started to deliver meals through the sliver of their doors.

Including Edward.

He had never once posed a threat, but evidently, the new chief thought he was. Edward had wanted to feel invigorated in the mess, but he wasn’t allowed to partake. He had tried to justify with the guards to allow him outside, or at least into the common area – but nothing worked. Most of them seemed too exhausted from battling lesser inmates to even acknowledge him.

Arkham was falling apart.

Edward hated the isolation, only finding entertainment in the walks to the visitor’s area, the hour that followed, and the walk back to his cell. Otherwise, he was kept hidden away, not even pulled out for group therapy.

‘ _We’re enough to keep you busy, aren’t we, Eddie_?’ Kristen was in his ear on the regular now, taunting him whenever she could. Dougherty stood next to the bed, peering down at him as he attempted to rest.

“You’re both just a response to this environment.”

‘ _And before you even showed up here, what were we then_?’

“A reaction to stress.”

‘ _You wound us_!’ Dougherty cackled from next to him.

The only consolation Edward had were the two timings a day, and the singular visit per week he was allowed to have. Then there were the gifts that had started to show up during weeks when Oswald couldn’t visit. One containing biscuits, another containing a certain recognizable sweater.

A note attached read: ‘ _Returning this borrowed atrocity to you, I’d refrain from wearing it in public_.’

These little sentiments prevented a total collapse in Edward; one he likely would’ve only found was possible if he hadn’t had a friend around to be a light in the dark.

* * *

It’s near the end of their hour one week when Oswald brings up where Ed had been cut off, talking about the things he’d been seeing, and wanting Ed to clarify. Ed takes to skimming his fingers across the bench, recalling how Miss Kringle had reacted to his inner voices.

 _‘I believed you, didn’t I?’_ It was unusual, hearing her in his left ear when he’d been normally distracted with Oswald in the room. ‘ _But, it worries you, doesn’t it? Being truthful, because I didn’t understand that these voices made you a_ psycho.’ She swirled around him, now at his right. ‘ _He’s like you though, you know that. You already know he understands. He might be the only one who does.’_

Edward considers this, realizing it had been several seconds since Oswald asked, and their time was likely going to be ending any moment.

“The people I killed, they haunt me.” Edward started, looking down at his hands to attempt to centre himself. Oswald seemed especially attentive and quiet. “Not in a remorseful kind of way, in a show up in my cell and ruin my day kind of way.”

“As in you hallucinate them?”

“Yes. Only Officer Dougherty has actually materialized, but Miss Kringle is auditory… being confined to my cell, with no sedatives, has only heightened their resolve in tormenting me. Sometimes they can be useful, in telling me how to act appropriately to certain situations.”

Oswald’s quiet, too quiet for Edward’s liking, as his gaze flutters up to gauge his reaction. The guard perks up that their time is done, and Edward realizes he hasn’t explained as much as he’d like. He’s concerned that perhaps this was a bad idea, that maybe Miss Kringle had pressured him when in actuality she knew Oswald would think it was too much crazy.

Oswald catches his wrist as he gets up from the bench, aware of Ed’s distress, giving a light squeeze and then letting go as the guard grumbles. It’s enough to reassure Ed that nothing’s changed.

* * *

The disarray of Arkham is clear as Edward glances into the common room on his way back to his cell after the visit, multiple staffers corralling around a group of inmates, in a stalemate. Batons at the ready. There are several shouts as they all seem to lunge at each other, and Edward finds himself recalling he’s never been very good at fighting.

The guard seems to lead him down a different hallway, perhaps forgetting where Edward was situated. It’s somewhere Edward hasn’t been, and the silence among the cells is deafening. They pass through a gate, heading into an area labelled ‘ _untreatables_ ’, which seemed distasteful, even if it is Arkham.

“This isn’t where my cell is,” Edward calls out, stopping next to one of the inmate’s cells, hearing hushed crying. The guard shrugs, stopping next to the guard post and beginning to chat with one of them. Edward stands there idly, uncertain why the guard couldn’t have just brought him back before needing to socialize. The inmate next to him lets out a blood-curdling scream, sending Edward to the floor in shock, hands covering his ears. “What the-“

The guards don’t even seem to falter, continuing to talk as if this was some normal occurrence. Edward gets to his feet, wiping dirt from his jumpsuit, and moving to look into the room – he takes a step back, remembering Indian Hill, and feeling sudden worry. The voice sounded young. Edward breathes in, moving forward to peer in through the small barred window.

There are paintings everywhere, most of them not descriptive enough to make out what they’re meant to be, but they all follow the same scrawled theme. There’s a male seated in the middle of the room, hands cradling his head, pulling at long brown hair, as he shakes back and forth, whispering inaudibly.

“ _Pst_ ,” Edward tries, finding a pull of curiosity towards the inmate.

The inmate turns with a start, looking towards the window but not at Edward directly, looking past him. Edward whirls around, to make sure no one is actually there as he faces him again.

“What’s your name?” Edward calls out, in attempts to make the inmate focus.

The younger male mutters incoherently, pointing next to Edward, and beginning to scream at whatever was there.

“My name’s Ed.”

More shouting, this time Edward can make out something about a… _scarecrow_? And something that sounded vaguely like ‘ _help me_.’

“Hey! Don’t talk to him!” Edward’s guard is at his back – he hasn’t even learned his name, doesn’t even care at this point. “Let’s go.”

They follow the proper hallway back to his cell, but Edward’s still curious about the young inmate. Seems unjustified to have him housed here, he should’ve been sent to a juvenile mental facility.

“Who was that?” Edward asked, seeing no harm in knowing the answer.

“Jonathan Crane.” The guard offered. “His dad was a real whack job, stuffed him full of adrenaline or something-“

“Cortisol.” Edward corrected, remembering the case Jim and Bullock had worked on, where’d they’d killed Jonathan’s father in the end.

“Yeah, sure, that.” The guard continues, gliding his baton across the bars as they walked past the common area, the guards seeming to have won the earlier match, subdued inmates lined one wall. “We have to repeatedly paint over the kid’s damn cell, he covers the walls with those sketches every time-“ Edward wonders why they don’t just take the paint away, but doesn’t need to ask as the guard answers, “he did it with blood one time… when we took his equipment away, we settled on just letting him do it.”

* * *

“Gabriel, see to it that the bakery on fifth sends a dozen biscuits to Arkham Asylum, would you?” Oswald mentioned, in the middle of discussing the threat of _someone_ in the Narrows, his mind had been elsewhere. There were threats _everywhere_.

“Yes, boss. Same recipient?” Gabe raised from his seat after Oswald nodded, leaving the office to do so.

“Were you even listening?” The pawn – _what was his name again_? – Antonio, yes he was complaining about Javier in the Narrows causing tension by not allowing him to continue to funnel drugs into the area. He came from old Italian blood, with curly black hair, formidable dark brown eyes, five o’clock shadow gracing his features, knew how to dress – all those traits, but still a terrible entrepreneur considering his unwillingness to accept the new world order.

“The territory belongs to Javier, this could’ve been resolved by a call, not a face-to-face chat. Find an employer in a different area.”

“I’ve been working that block for ten years, this isn’t fair!” Antonio pushed away from the desk, hands coming down to slam against it.

Oswald’s gaze fluttered in annoyance, placing his chin into his palm. “Things change.”

Antonio scoffed, bringing his fist down onto the desk for added flair, and leaving the office in a rush.

“Boss?” Butch called from the entrance, not waiting for a reply as he came in to sit where Antonio had been. “The Sirens is set to open in two weeks, Barbara is continuing to make a point of not returning your calls.”

“How inconsiderate. Giving them protection wasn’t a request, you’d think she’d have more tact.”

“You know, the club was _my_ idea.” Butch sighed, leaning back as the chair creaked in response to added pressure. “Tabby and me, we were going to open it, but then Babs was released and everything changed. Suddenly, Barbara was the vocal point for the business, even though she was barely present. I shouldn’t have let it drag on for so long. I loved- love Tabitha, but she didn’t feel the same. I can’t believe she squeezed me out of these plans, that’s not right. I visited her every day in the hospital, and now she treats me like a stranger.”

“I could kill her,” Oswald stated nonchalantly, meeting Butch’s bewildered gaping mouth as a reply. “I’d even do it myself if you need that to get over her.”

“No, I just- boss, I just said I love her. You don’t kill the people you love. She deserves to be happy, even if that’s not with me.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll reserve a plot at Gotham Cemetery for when you change your mind.”

Butch shook his head from side to side, he wasn’t sure what else he’d expected from Oswald, needing a change from the unusual subject matter. “You should be careful with the old blood that comes in here, Antonio won’t leave something like this alone.”

“Which family did he used to be a part of?”

“Maroni’s.”

“And which family is he a part of _now_?”

Butch furrowed his brow, “…yours?”

“So, by that logic, he answers to me, right?”

Butch could tell Oswald was being condescending to drive a point home, but he still didn’t enjoy being talked down to like a child. “Yes, boss.”

“Then I really don’t care that he has to travel a block to find new business. Javier is rated higher than Antonio in tiered value, so, what does that mean?”

“That he can go fuck himself?”

“In colourful terms, yes.” Oswald stifled a chuckle. “Travelling back to the conversation from before, since they seemed to undercut you on this club of theirs, should I dispatch some arsons to the Sirens to make a point?”

“Jesus Christ, _no_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Oswald replied, with utter disappointment.

* * *

A doctor – one Edward hasn’t seen before – is at his cell, strumming his fingers along the desk, pausing at the box, peering inside to notice there were only crumbs left of whatever food had been there. He pulls open the creaky drawer, pulling out the sweater and accompanying note.

“Not cold today, Mr Nygma?” The doctor starts, manhandling the sweater by its collar, and allowing the paper to fall.

“Hey-“ Edward gets up from the bed, but the guard presses his baton to his chest, forcing him back down.

“Your file states you haven’t talked very much since being here.” The doctor continues, folding the sweater neatly and placing it on top of the desk, but still not noticing the note as he steps on it with the toe of his shoe. Edward does notice that though, notices the footprint left on it, flashing animosity towards the stranger. “Well, you haven’t talked much in therapy. Obviously, you talk plenty when it serves a purpose, don’t you?”

Edward’s not sure how to respond, taking the least worst option and choosing to not speak at all.

“I thought you might respond that way.” The doctor placed a hand into his lab coat’s pocket, fingering the nestled object he held there. Edward briefly wondered if he even was a doctor, he had no name tag, looked a little too young for this career, wore glasses that were much too large for his face, it seemed rather scripted. “I do so hope my next visits will be more fruitful.” The doctor pulled an empty hand from the pocket, seeming to the change the course of his plans, and picking up the sweater from the table. “Since group therapy is no longer an option, if you refuse from my course of treatment, the longer this stays with me.”

Edward’s helpless as the doctor and guard leave, with the sweater, feeling emptier than he had since before they’d entered. And yet, there was only silence around the room. No taunting voices.

Possibly since the only thoughts he had were envisioning his hands wrapped around the doctor’s neck, sucking the air from his thin throat, watching him collapse under his grip; finding absolute amusement towards the thought of the doctor’s limp dead body on the floor of his cell.

* * *

Oswald makes a trip to the Sirens a few weeks after they open, pointedly ignoring the invitation he’d received for their opening night as the duo had blatantly still been ignoring his calls. The club did look well-put together. It wasn’t much of a surprise, Barbara always had a knack for décor. She’d proven that after renovating most of the mansion, except for his father’s office, he had ensured that remained untouched.

The live female band held a captive audience, and the club seemed abuzz even though it was still early. Oswald found Barbara next to the bar, as she finally noticed him, turning to face him, flinging an arm out animatedly.

“Ozzie!” In a not so subtle change of tone, Barbara’s voice lowers, “Butch,” before perking up again, “what a nice surprise.”

“Forgive me for not coming sooner.” Oswald smiles, admiring many aspects of her newest attraction – the bar, the square footage, the location, the second level, the kitchen – the endless bounds of opportunities for such a prime piece of real estate, he felt somewhat bitter that he hadn’t bought it first. “The place looks marvellous! Wouldn’t you say so, Butch?”

Butch is distracted, sweat trickling down his brow as he tries to focus on the incandescent masterpiece of the bar next to them. He didn’t want to be here, making the disdain known through his words. “Yeah, the place looks great.” After all, this had been his idea, pre-Barbara’s return, back when things were somewhat good.

“I imagine you’re here about your offer.” Barbara starts, and Butch is thankful she’s getting right to the point because he really didn’t want to be there any longer than they needed to be. “To let us shelter under your umbrella?”

“I only want what’s best for you.” Oswald nods, verbiage more conducive to what was best for _him_.

“I appreciate the thought.” Barbara leans towards him, clearly sceptical of his motives, even though they are heavily skirting around the subject. “But we’re big girls. We can handle ourselves. Can’t we?”

“Sure we can.” Tabitha’s voice has Butch at alert, watching her as she moves to Barbara’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, Butch.”

Oswald knew that the probability of seeing Tabitha again would be a certainty, but it doesn’t prevent his open display of taking a deep breath to soothe particular urges. Many of which involve a bullet through Tabitha’s skull. Wishing he could act on them, as Butch fumbles with his words at seeing her for the first time since her stay at Gotham General.

“Hey, h-how you doing?”

“You taking care of yourself?” Tabitha asks, scanning his frame.

“Y-yeah, yeah. So, uh, so how you doing?” Butch repeats.

“You already asked her that.” Oswald had thought it might’ve been a poor idea to bring Butch along, since he clearly wasn’t out of the woods with his feelings for Tabitha, even after six months. It was beginning to get on his nerves. How long did this sort of thing take?

Butch clears his throat, trying to find the inner gangster shine from within. “You guys should take him up on his offer. Gotham’s full of rough characters,” dialogue interrupted by his sudden appreciation for Tabitha’s looks, “you look great by the way.”

“Wait over there,” Oswald places a gloved hand against Butch’s chest, reaching the end of his patience for Butch’s floundering. “Please.”

“Poor bunny,” Barbara taunts, as Butch seats himself at the end of the bar. “Break-ups are hard.”

“I offered to kill you.” Oswald evaluates as Tabitha’s expression shifts from hardened to threatening. “I thought it would raise his spirits. It would be my pleasure-” raising his voice as he continues, “-seeing as how you murdered my mother!” Oswald chuckles, “but he is nursing some foolish hope that you two will get back together.” He shrugs with another chuckle, “ _love_.”

“You can take your offer and stick it up-“ Tabitha lurches, but Barbara’s grasp is tight around her waist.

“We’ll think about it, Ozzie.” Barbara interrupts, no use shedding blood on recently tiled floors.

Oswald sighs, “fine. But that’s not the only reason I’m here. Spread the word – I want Fish Mooney, and I will give a million dollars to whoever can bring her to me. Dead or alive,” he takes a step towards them, “chopped into pieces, I want her.”

That has their attention, as he knew it would. The bounty for Fish’s head would likely have all of Gotham talking, wanting to partake in her capture, it was exactly what he needed to push his plans forward. He bids farewell to Barbara, not acknowledging Tabitha as he turns to find Butch talking with Selina Kyle, as she effectively pickpockets his wallet while continuing to wallow in his drink.

“Just seeing her kills me, you know?” Butch states as Oswald approaches.

Yes, it might have been the first time Butch has seen her since the hospital, but this isn’t the first time Oswald has had to endure Butch’s unwavering affections for the woman who killed his mother.

Oswald grips at Butch’s wrist, leaning in. “ _Get over it_. And that child just stole your wallet.”

* * *

“There was a level of brilliance to Dr Strange.” Edward mentions casually, leaving a conversation behind of Gotham’s recent prevalence of bounty hunters. “He was somehow able to manipulate a normal person’s physiology, their base anatomy, to create new beings. It was like unlocking things all humans could be capable of but have been inhibited by our slow evolution. He was able to bring us into a future that would’ve been so far away. It’s fascinating.”

“Hugo Strange is a monster who created more monsters,” Oswald replied, bitterly.

“You are biased-“

“Towards a man who had me forcefully strapped to a chair nearly every day, created and used his own version of torturous electrode-therapy, with an added component of some adrenal-concoction, to induce memories or variations of my mother’s death, to evict my mind of being who I was, _yes_ , I must be a little biased.” Oswald hadn’t meant to say any of that, eyes opening wide as he caught Ed staring at him in a pained astonishment. “Not that you’ll have to deal with that here-“

“I’m sorry.” Ed interrupted, breaking the cardinal rule of the asylum, and reaching over to rest a hand overtop of Oswald’s on the metal table. He gave a light squeeze and then retracted it reluctantly. “I didn’t know.”

Muddled warmth spread through Oswald’s being, finding a level of calm he’d forgotten existed. Ed’s concern hadn’t been that it could still be something he might face in Arkham, it’d been in _what_ Oswald had endured. He’d realized in the last couple of months that he looked forward to the time he spent in the other’s company, despite recollecting it was problematic. He felt comfort, as he had in the inmate’s apartment, but he couldn’t be dependent on it. Things had changed.

Arkham had been a root cause of the change. The formula Strange had used on Oswald had permanently changed a characteristic in him he still didn’t grasp. Where he normally should’ve felt an emotional response to the memories of his mother, or now his father, he didn’t. It’s as if more than just the switch to his violence had been turned off, but a certain level of his grief too. His moments with Ed seemed to bring back his empathy, seemed to allow him to properly commiserate with his emotions.

The silence had been much too long, Oswald realized, as he remembered the delicately gift-wrapped box seated next to him on the bench, placing it on the table and pushing it lightly towards Ed. Attempting to calm his nerves, especially knowing just how long he’d spent in that old store. Oswald recounted the story behind the puzzle as Ed took a total of _ten_ seconds to solve it, the pieces coming undone, and falling to their sides.

Oswald chuckled. He had evaluated Ed’s intelligence on occasions before this, but it had partially been a test to ensure Arkham hadn’t hindered it. “Well, there you go.”

“It was a lovely thought.” Ed offered, despite the simplicity he found from the gift, his small smile was genuine. This place was still picking away at his morale, moments like these being the only thing that illuminated his dimmed mood.

“And did you get the biscuits? And the sweater? I know how drafty these rooms are.”

“Mr Penguin-“

“Oswald.” He’d noted that Ed had regressed back to calling him by his moniker as some form of regret for not being a good friend, and no longer thought he had that privilege of calling him by his first name.

“When I think of how I treated you-“ Ed started, feeling as if he hadn’t earned any of this.

“Stop.”

“Why are you being so kind?”

Oswald considered it, reminiscing of how few people he had in his life who deserved his kindness. He’d been candidly affectionate by sending Ed gifts, even if he’d been trying to suppress the level of gratefulness he had for Ed. “Talking to you these past months, I don’t know how I would’ve gotten by otherwise.” His thoughts went to Fish again, as they normally did, from the fear of the unknown, especially with the rumours floating around of her supernatural powers. “With Fish out there planning who knows what… me being surrounded by morons and lunatics-“

Ed rolled his eyes to the ceiling, finding the irony in where he was. “I know the feeling.”

“Why didn’t she kill me when she had the chance? I was powerless. She must have a larger goal. I need to know what she is doing-”

“Do you?” Ed questioned abruptly, pulling the wrapping paper between his fingers and ripping it in half. He pulled it underneath the table as he spoke, fingers moving methodically as he spoke with ease. “When Alexander encountered the Gordian knot, a knot so complex, no one had ever been able to untangle it, he just… removed his sword and… cut it in two.” Ed chuckled, “details can be distracting. Sometimes a simple solution is best. See, no matter what she is planning, just remember,” he brought his hands from underneath the table, freshly crafted origami-Penguin between his fingers as he pushed it in front of Oswald, “penguins… _eat_ … fish.”

Edward’s confidence in him, the fact there was already a million dollar bounty out for her, and she hadn’t posed an outward threat to him or his empire yet, was all enough to calm his worries. She was simply travelling with a circus show of freaks. It’s enough motivation for Oswald to actually think, pushing him to another topic entirely, and thinking of a fabulous way to get Gotham under his thumb.

“I think your time is coming to an end here, Ed,” Oswald mentioned, as the guard tapped the baton against the bars, signalling an end to the hour.

Edward didn’t have the chance to ask to clarify the meaning of his words, noticing that Oswald seemed entirely elated by whatever ideas were coming to mind.

* * *

“Today marks a new era,” Oswald announced, travelling around the table, where the heads of Gotham’s underbelly sat, listening to his spiel. “In the coming days, I’ll continue to raise concerns about GCPD’s inadequacies, and then work away at former Mayor James’s reputation, leading to announcing my candidacy for mayor.”

Chatter erupts around the table, as Oswald suspected to happen. No one has outwardly made clear their disdain, as he moves to the seat at the centre of one side, resting on it.

“How do you expect to run two operations? Especially when one is so visible.” Javier perks up from the end of the table, as several others nod at the question.

“Easily.”

This entire plan had come to fruition in Arkham, of all places, after his discussion with Ed, further affirming how he wanted to help Ed evolve.

“You’re going to have to elaborate more, boss. No one here trusts politicians, what if you turn on us?”

A chorus of ‘ _yeahs_ ’ erupted around the room. He had wanted Butch here as a show of support, but he was still engorged in misery over Tabitha, and from what Zsasz had informed Oswald – was presently stalking the Sirens. Although, if anyone asked, it was purely to scout for information Oswald didn’t ask for. Previously that evening, Oswald had made a point of shooting the faux-threat Butch had dispatched to pull a rise from Barbara and Tabitha, as an attempt to push them to accept Oswald’s aid.

Despite telling them they could run their club without his protection, he still had Zsasz send associates to watch over the club – mostly stemmed from paranoia over the idea of the duo overthrowing him.

“This will bring unity to Gotham, not drive us apart. We will run this city, entirely. Me, as a figurehead here, and at City Hall.” Oswald assured. “And I won’t be doing it alone, I have Butch Gilzean, all of you, and an individual who will soon be released from incarceration to aid with operations.”

“You mean the same fellow you’ve been buttering up by sending sweets to while at Arkham?” A voice perked up from behind Oswald. Antonio stood in the doorframe to the conference room, moving to stand at the end where the fireplace was situated. “I did some recon on that one, and it seems you want to hide the fact he’s an ex-GCPD employee, right?”

Oswald fidgets in the seat, looking over to Zsasz seated directly across from him.

“I’ll take your silence as, yes, that’s the one.” Antonio laughs, pressing his palms into the table and leaning forward. “Having a previous employee of our number one enemy on the payroll is just asking for trouble. He’ll rat us out, his loyalty resides with them. Politicians are no-good sharks, and this is a bad idea. I say we should take a vote for new leadership since we’re going to lose you so soon.” Antonio places a mocking hand to his heart as if wounded. “Who’s with me?”

Oswald taps his index finger against the table, and everyone freezes except for him and Zsasz. A gunshot echoes around the room, Antonio’s eyes briefly going wide as he crumples to the floor, clutching the wound pulling open his chest. Heads slowly turn to watch Zsasz enthusiastically blow the smoke away from the tip of his pistol, and places the weapon on the table – for ease in case someone else wanted to speak up.

“Any other concerns?” Oswald asks rhetorically. He looks around the table, there were only four of the twelve he was currently concerned with. Old blood from an era that wasn’t fond of change. He briefly contemplated terminating all of them, to show that it was the dawn of a new day. It didn’t seem worth it keeping any of them alive, really.

He briefly wondered how much effort it would be to rule an entire city with only two.

* * *

Fish had seen Oswald rise from a sour point, he had plenty of memories to prove how involved she had been in his progression. He had respected her, in the vague way he’d also respected Salvatore Maroni and Carmine Falcone – they’d all been instrumental to how Gotham had survived for so long.

She had seen him in a light few had – from raw beginnings with permanent consequences. She’d been nurturing in the sense that if Oswald had never betrayed her, she likely would’ve rewarded his loyalty. Even now, she saw him for his worth, even with a gun trained on her, lightly shaking.

He’d always feel absolute fear towards her, knowing that she was better off dead, especially if her vendetta involved revenge on him.

“So, this is it?” Fish’s lip twitches. “I spare your life, and you shoot me dead in the woods like an animal?”

“Pretty much, yes.” Oswald shakes his head from side to side. “But I will admit, that night under the bridge stayed with me. Why?” He’d been wondering it for half a year. This answer was essential.

“Why _what_?”

“Why didn’t you kill me? I have gone over that night a thousand times, and it doesn’t make any sense.” Oswald stepped towards her, gun still raised, as her heterochromia gaze fluttered to the weapon. “Why didn’t you kill me? I would’ve killed you in an instant.” Her inability to find an answer has Oswald impatiently motioning the gun in her direction. “Answer me!”

“Because you’re _mine_.” Fish starts and Oswald’s features falter. “You were my umbrella boy, remember? You rubbed my _feet_ when they were tired. And now look at you, the terror of Gotham. Everything I’ve done in my life, possibly the best thing was turning Oswald Cobblepot into the Penguin.” Her voice is genuine, and it causes ripples of bewilderment. “I couldn’t destroy that. Ask him.” She tilts her head to highlight Dr Strange’s presence. “He understands what it is to bring something into being. It is a part of you. Forever.”

It hadn’t been what he anticipated. Despite how he had _betrayed_ her, _killed_ her – he was still her greatest masterpiece. Oswald wasn’t a piece of her story she regretted, she valued him, was even proud of all he’d become, and could still be. His heart felt heavy, not realizing how much he yearned for someone’s approval, and now Fish Mooney, of all people, was the one giving it to him.

Oswald felt overcome with emotion, forcing through tears as all resolve to kill her again was gone.

“Goodbye, Fish. Don’t come back.”

* * *

The next few weeks are an array of events, but Oswald finds himself at his tailor despite the busyness, critiquing the suit he’s had him make.

“What do you think, Gabe?” Oswald asks, twirling on his heel, arms crossed.

“Looks good, boss.”

Oswald made a sound in the back of his throat, “I was hoping for a better critique.” He eyed the colour of the fabric from a distance, and then scrutinized it closely.

“You didn’t give me any specifications to go by other than approximations, it was difficult to make.” The older Italian man whined as the quality of his work had been impeded with no physical subject.

Oswald smiled, running a hand along the material of the jacket. Everything had been exactly how he had asked, ignoring the experienced tailor’s concern for his work. “Same fee as usual?”

“A little more for the added stress, Mr Kapelput.”

“Of course.” Oswald motioned for Gabe to hand the tailor an envelope, extra already included for his efforts. The tailor counted it, huffing in acceptance as he retrieved the handcrafted suit from the mannequin, delicately placing it into a garment bag.

It was one step of many, Oswald thought, as Gabe took the bag, careful not to wrinkle it or bend it as they travelled back to the Van Dahl mansion.

“Quimby never wanted the job at Arkham,” Gabe starts, once they’re secured in the limousine. “According to previous coworkers, he wanted to run his own practice, or be in charge of a reputable institution. He was forced to take the job at Arkham because they offered him a raise that would pay off gambling debts.”

“Everyone has a weakness, don’t they Gabe?” Oswald hummed, content with the intel. “Let’s mark time in my schedule tomorrow to pay him a visit.”

* * *

Arkham’s inmates and guards are being thrown around as Oswald follows Quimby towards his small office. “I’m not sure who scheduled this meeting, Mr Cobblepot, but as you can see, I have been burdened with restoring order to this facility, and that is no easy task.”

“A man of your reputation should not have been sent here to clean up Strange’s wreckage.” Oswald baits, as shouts erupt everywhere around them. Oh, how he hated this forsaken place.

“Indeed,” Quimby replies solemnly.

“You are aware of my ambitions? For office?” Smile in place, exuding charm.

They reach the office, inputting a code into the control panel attached to the barred door, that earns a loud accepted buzzer noise, as the door swings open.

“Once mayor, I will grant you whatever position you care to request. Gotham’s Head of Psychiatry, a chair on Gotham’s Board of Health?” Oswald lists, peaking Quimby’s interest.

“In exchange for what exactly?”

“Even though my victory is inevitable, I fear my campaign is missing one key element.” Oswald leans heavily on his cane, “a colleague of mine is locked up here. Unfairly.”

“Are you suggesting that I release a convicted criminal out onto the street?”

“Well, yes.” Oswald scoffs amusedly. “For _your_ betterment.”

“That would take extensive patient analysis, uh, probational hearings, appeals-“ alarms sound over them, both looking up to watch as a red light begins to circle the office in warning as a man announces a lockdown coming into effect.

“Of course, there’s always plan B.” Oswald steps forward. “I give you _nothing_ -“ Quimby gulps, “-but I make sure you remain here forever. Not as warden, no, I would see you scrub floors and empty inmates’ latrines.” Oswald leans back, “ _options_.”

It takes a number of gruelling days before Quimby calls Oswald to confirm he’s been able to release Ed. Quimby tries to make a point that this doesn’t mean Oswald’s colleague is stable, and how Oswald should consider a professional treatment plan.

Except Oswald doesn’t need to find a professional treatment plan, he just needs to give Ed a purpose. He needs to rid Ed of the boredom, offer an escape from Arkham’s reaches. There would likely still be many things he didn’t understand about Ed’s psyche, but the same could be said for his own.

There would be plenty of time.

He had Olga prepare a bedroom at the mansion (making sure it was one he hadn’t killed anyone in). He had Gabe retrieve some of Ed’s old clothes, while Zsasz would ensure Ed’s old landlord was paid several months rent in advance. He had Butch answer calls on his behalf while he was gone.

He was _ecstatic_.

* * *

Edward must’ve been hearing things. The guard he had come to loathe had yanked him out of his bed, handed him the clothes he’d arrived in so many months ago, and stated that he was being released. Why would he be released? He’d done nothing as of late to show he was a model inmate, he’d been given solitary confinement while Arkham imploded.

He was being led towards those tall gates, with a bag in hand of belongings, missing a few that had allegedly been misplaced by that ‘ _doctor_ ’ who’d visited him. Those tall gates represented a desperate dream of escape, now he was being allowed to leave, but none of it made sense. Was he dreaming? Did they drug him? He checked his arms for needle marks, finding none.

“I’m _sane_.” Edward starts, voice low. Quimby has materialized at some point, a piece of paper in hand as he was practically shoving Edward out the gate.

“Absolutely. One hundred percent. I examined you myself.” Quimby pressed the certificate proving Edward’s sanity into his hands. Edward hadn’t been examined, that was a lie. _What the hell?_

“And the murder of Miss Kringle?”

“Committed while you were insane.”

“Officer Dougherty?”

“Insane.”

“Officer Pinkney?”

“Insane.”

“And now I’m-“

“Sane. And not responsible for any of the acts perpetrated during your sickness. You’re a free man, Edward.” Quimby tries to close the gate, but Edward interrupts him.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but how did you-“ Everything starts to align as a familiar limousine comes around the corner, engine idling, immediately bringing a knowing smile to Edward’s face. “Never mind.”

He turns in time to watch the rear window lower, Oswald peeking his head out the window, sly smile in place, “Hello, old friend,” before retreating and opening the door.

All other sounds are mute as Edward finds his way to the vehicle, climbing into the back seat, closing the car door, and not giving much way to personal space as he nestles up next to Oswald.

“How did-“ Edward starts, placing the bag and certificate on an adjacent seat. He’s aware there’s plenty of room elsewhere for him to sit, but he’s content where he is, knees knocking against Oswald’s as the vehicle begins to reverse. He already knows the answer to his query. “This is brilliant. No bodyguard this time?”

“Are you suggesting I should be more wary towards a recently sprung Arkham resident?” Oswald tensed, not from actual concern, but from the heat of Ed leaning against him, head coming down to rest against Oswald’s shoulder. It must have been uncomfortable from that angle, with the difference in height, but Ed didn’t budge.

“Heavens _no_.” Edward murmured, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, indulging in the lack of rules now that he wasn’t confined, taking a few minutes before finding himself asking, “how am I ever going to repay you?”

“Don’t worry, I intend to put you to work immediately.” Oswald begins to talk animatedly about his progress during the last number of weeks, apologizing profusely for being unable to visit, but that it served a greater purpose. He started to talk about his candidacy, how he was certain he’d win, how the city seemed to fawn over him.

At some point Oswald realizes that Ed hasn’t responded in quite some time because he’s fallen asleep soundly on his shoulder, breathing evened out.

It’s the _best_ sleep Edward’s had in nearly eight months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this after a five-year-hiatus, so I hope to re-write the first couple of chapters soon before completing this story, but it will get completed. :)


End file.
